


punch drunk

by queertitan



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Alcohol, Anal Sex, Assassin's Creed: Syndicate, Canon Queer Character, Canon Trans Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Dissociation, Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Manipulation, bottom!Jacob, jacob is in a Bad Place
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-14 09:14:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5738005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queertitan/pseuds/queertitan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roth has an ever-growing need to know all he possibly can about Jacob Frye, and so his many spies become all the more attuned to rumors such as these: that when Jacob cannot be found stalking his targets and scrambling around on rooftops, he is often the star of one of Robert Topping's fight clubs.</p><p>(Alternately: Jacob gets picked up at Fight Club, several times, and slowly - painfully - comes to grips with his sexuality. A retelling of Sequence 8.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. darling, what a night

**Author's Note:**

> me: what if I wrote something really upsetting —  
> my friends: EAGER NODDING
> 
> (many thanks to those sinners for the encouragement. this fic is 50% jacob character study and 100% Fucked Up, with an eventual side of Good Wholesome Relationships. enjoy!)

It sounds like the opening to a joke: what does a young Assassin do on his evenings off?

Maxwell finds the answer as he finds most answers — by keeping his ears open. His ears, and the ears of every man, woman, and child who answers to him. One can, by listening artfully, discover a great deal even about those as secretive as the Fryes. 

He already knows far more about Jacob that he cares to let on. He is perfectly aware, for example, that the Frye twins occupy one of the trains which spends its time rattling around in a circuit of London. (How unique, Maxwell thinks, unexpected, charming). He knows that the twins are at odds in their methods and beliefs, and that even some of their underlings have heard them quarrel. He knows that the Fryes are intimately connected with his recent inability to get his hands on any of Ned Wynert's shipments. Most of this, Maxwell learned from a single Rook, who he had abducted from the street, whose loyalty and silence had not withstood the finer tortures at Maxwell's disposal.

That young man is dead now, of course, safely passed off as the victim of a brawl between gangs. And Jacob himself is Maxwell's primary source of information, though he doesn't yet realize it. Jacob thinks of himself as very clever, and would never guess at how easily Maxwell can read him, how much Maxwell has learned of him through their little conversations.

But Maxwell has an ever-growing need to know all he possibly can about Jacob Frye, and so his many ears become all the more attuned to rumors such as these: that when Jacob cannot be found stalking his targets and scrambling around on rooftops, he is often the star of one of Robert Topping's fight clubs.

And so, one evening, Maxwell goes in search of a show.

-

The noise of the fight club is tremendous: the roar of cheers and drunken betting, the snarls and grunts and battle cries of the contestants, the meaty sounds of fists meeting flesh and men howling in pain, and Robert Topping gamely yelling above it all. Maxwell lets himself in at the door, and stands in the pressing crowd, grinning at the reverie and the earnest bloodlust of the onlookers. This is a fine way to repurpose a warehouse — a place of constraint and toil turned over to the poor and angry as a place to beat out their frustrations on the bodies of others. It reeks of sweat and beer, a smell that Maxwell associates with many an interesting and not unpleasant occasion. The lights lead him to the center stage, the middle of the action, to the man currently facing down half a dozen opponents at once.

He takes Maxwell's breath away.

At first description, Maxwell expected most of the Assassins to be like Henry Green — evasive as knives in the dark, irritatingly difficult to sniff out and pin down, people who seem to exist as shadows on the wall. From all he has learned, Evie Frye is much like this. Jacob, on the other hand, is quite a different beast.

And how like a beast he is now, bare to the waist, hands in fists, knuckles bloody as he bludgeons one of his opponents into the ground.

Topping is squealing with delight as Jacob's knuckles collide with another man's jaw, sending him wheeling back into one of the other brawlers. Two more fighters try to flank Jacob; he knocks their heads together and kicks one of them into the side of the ring, grabbing the other by the wrist and twisting his arm behind him until the bone cracks. He combines the control and precision of a dancer with the brutality of a drunk attempting to batter someone to death with a broken bottle. Maxwell cannot help but smile when one of the men caught in Jacob's grip screams, and Jacob drops him indifferently to the floor. 

Maxwell is so distracted watching Jacob that it takes him a few minutes to realize that he himself has been recognized and is attracting nervous stares from the crowd. It's only a matter of time before Jacob, as attuned as he is to his environment, notices the uncomfortable silence of the crowd on one side of the arena, the onlookers parting around Maxwell. Jacob tosses a man over his shoulder, slamming him into the floor, and then twists around to look. He meets Maxwell's eyes.

And if Maxwell didn't know any better, he'd say that Jacob is unbalanced by the sight of him. An electric current travels between them, warm and prickling. Maxwell can see by the look on Jacob’s face that he feels it just as keenly as Maxwell does. He is thinking of the things they have done together, the secrets kept safe by the walls of the Alhambra, and is simultaneously frightened and intrigued by having them brought into the light of the fight club.

As always, Jacob covers whatever alarm he feels with bravado. He smirks at Maxwell, straightening up to stand over the body of his fallen enemy, almost as if showing off.

Maxwell smiles and blames himself for the fact that Jacob doesn't see the next punch coming. A man lumbers up behind Jacob and swings at him while he’s distracted by Maxwell. Jacob snarls and whirls towards his opponent, and Maxwell laughs, withdrawing into the crowd and making his way back to the exit. As interesting as it would be to see if any of the Rooks are willing to pick a fight with him — he has an inkling that Jacob hasn't told the rest of his gang about their alliance — he doesn't want to cause a scene. Not now.

He is waiting outside when Jacob stalks through the door, his head swinging from side to side until he catches sight of Maxwell. He is, to Maxwell's disappointment, dressed. But his nose is still trickling blood and his skin gleams with sweat, so not all the effect is lost. 

"What are you doing here?" Jacob asks, without suspicion.

Maxwell grins at him and notes that Jacob instinctually begins to grin back. "I have information, my boy, and I think you may find it very interesting. Come! I'll show you."

It astounds him how willingly Jacob follows him to his carriage and accepts the reins, never questioning the necessity of their return to Maxwell's townhouse. At first Maxwell was inclined to view that trust as stupidity, but as time has gone on and the relationship has deepened, he has come to see it in a more affectionate light. Jacob moves through the world with absolute confidence; Maxwell finds that alluring. 

"You put on quite a show in the ring," Maxwell says, as they're driving. "Remarkable how they manage to find men still willing to fight you."

Jacob chuckles and bashfully ducks his head. "Impressed, are we?"

"Certainly, my dear. But I would expect no less from you." Maxwell reaches over and gives Jacob’s thigh a gentle slap; Jacob startles, his ears turning red. “ _Quite_ a show.”

(He has said this before, but at the time he was remarking on the appearance of Jacob splayed out underneath him, naked and disarmed, whining between his teeth as his hips bucked — )

There is color in Jacob's face, a healthy flush to match the blood that drips from his split lip when he grins. "What's this information you've found?" he asks.

"Changing the subject? Why, Jacob, you must learn to take a compliment." But Maxwell relents, because Jacob is flustered enough. "On to business, if you insist. Starrick let slip to me about a new smuggling operation he's running. He'll be making shipments across the Thames, but he's caught wind of the raids you keep making on his boats, so they'll be well-planned to avoid any obstruction by you and your associates. Or _would_ be well-planned, except that you'll know exactly when his boats are sailing based on the plans I've acquired."

"Excellent," Jacob says, with all the relish and bloodlust Maxwell has come to expect of him. But then he hesitates. "My... associates. What does Mr. Starrick know about them?"

"Oh, they do their best to keep out of Starrick's way. And mine. But Starrick knows you don't work alone, my dear."

Jacob's hands are tense on the reins. "Are they in any danger?"

Maxwell laughs. "Is there someone in particular you're worried about?"

Jacob shakes his head stubbornly. "Just… tell me if you hear he has any plans to go after any of the people we work with."

"Of course," Maxwell assures him. He gives Jacob’s thigh a teasing squeeze. "Your associates may not know about our little partnership, but in a way, we're all partners, aren't we? Besides, when Starrick has you to contend with, he's far too busy to worry about anything else. Ah, here we are."

Maxwell rarely entertains guests at home. He keeps a single servant, who is paid well to scrupulously avoid knowing any of what goes on in Maxwell's house and in his life. He spends much of his time at the theater, even to sleep, so his townhouse lacks some of his personal touch. He sees Jacob studying it wonderingly, and guesses that a fine, well furnished home was not where he expected Maxwell to live.

“Impressed, are we?” he asks, mimicking Jacob’s tone.

“It hardly seems villainous enough for you.”

“Ah, well, we mustn’t judge by appearances.” Maxwell removes his coat, hanging it crookedly by the door, and then turns. Jacob, with a playful look in his eyes, spreads his arms out as if inviting Maxwell to play the valet. Maxwell chuckles, stepping behind him and catching Jacob's coat by its collar. “I give you my word that there is plenty of villainy to be had here,” he murmurs, and feels Jacob stiffen as he pulls the coat free of his arms. 

Like so many innuendos, Jacob will let the remark slide. By now, Maxwell is confident of that particular branch of Jacob’s psychology. His confidence seems to depend on his pretending that he has never flirted with Maxwell, even as he flirts.

(And charms, and kisses, and fucks.)

Jacob's coat is quite heavy, and Maxwell wonders what it's doubtless many pockets contain. Weapons, in all likelihood, which Jacob is unwise to leave at the door when he enters Maxwell's home. But Jacob considers himself his greatest weapon, so of course it doesn’t frighten him to go unarmed.

Not that violence seems to frighten him at all. No, it is _romance_ that makes him shy.

"What will you have to drink tonight, my dear?" Maxwell asks, making his way to the well-stocked liquor cabinet.

"Surprise me," Jacob drawls. Which is quite unsurprising of him. The boy makes it clear how much he enjoys Maxwell's whims, no matter what form they take. He is leaning against the window when Maxwell turns around, and oh, the look in his eyes is terribly inviting whether he means it to be or not. There is a faint smile on his mouth, teasing, and the cant of his hips suggests either overconfidence or overcompensation. But his eyes! His eyes are soft, curious, filled with hope and desire, restrained only by self-denial.

Maxwell pours him something very strong indeed. He pours himself the same drink, to be fair; let it never be said that he does not intend to swim in the same well of temptation that Jacob seems destined to drown in. He brings both glasses to the window instead of calling Jacob over, because when he walks toward Jacob, he can feel how the tension between them is like a wire being pulled tighter and tighter. He watches how Jacob presses himself back slightly against the wall, as if he expects to be pinned against it.

(After all, he has been.)

"I warn you," Maxwell says, as he gives Jacob his glass. "This has _bite_."

"I think I can handle it," Jacob says. He takes an overeager swig from the glass, and chokes on it. Maxwell watches with pleasure as color floods his cheeks — humiliation at his own reaction, or merely the warmth of the alcohol reaching his face? "You weren't kidding," Jacob manages, and dabs wincingly at his lip. "It... burns."

"I quite forgot about your injuries, my dear. How thoughtless of me. Sit down, and I'll tend to your wounds before we talk business."

"There's no need —"

"Sit," Maxwell commands, waving Jacob toward a seat on the sofa. Jacob's eyes flicker from Maxwell to the couch, but then he does as he's told.

Maxwell returns to him with a collection of tinctures and salves, which he arranges on the arm of the sofa. He draws up a chair close enough that Jacob needs to spread his legs apart to accommodate it. And spread them he does, so easily it seems almost subconscious. Maxwell grasps him by the chin, gently turning his face to one side so that he can rub an ointment into the spectacular bruise beginning to form on Jacob's cheek.

"Are you trying to take care of me?" Jacob asks, with a chuckle, as if the idea is absurd. But Maxwell detects a hint of contrary hopefulness in his eyes when they skitter across Maxwell's face.

The boy has no father. Has not, if what Maxwell's spies have learned about the Frye twins is true, ever had anyone to take care of him as a father should. It would be far too easy for Maxwell to indulge that streak of childish longing he sees in Jacob's face, to allow Jacob to feel he can depend on him.

And far more interesting to stoke the fires of Jacob's pride and bravado. Maxwell is so curious to see how far he can go. So he laughs too. "Take care of you? Why, my dear, what a ridiculous idea. As if _you_ need anyone to take care of you."

He adores the way Jacob grins at him, as if he is not the least bit disappointed.

-

He takes Jacob upstairs after that, to the comfortable room which contains a large table and also, incidentally, Maxwell's bed. Maxwell ignores the way Jacob's eyes flick towards the bed. 

(It does not resemble the bed in the Alhambra where Maxwell has taken him before, but still the association must be powerful in Jacob’s mind.)

From a hidden cabinet, he withdraws the plans he pinched and had copied from Starrick's office. He spreads the papers out across the table and beckons Jacob, who swallows the rest of his drink before joining him.

Jacob is getting antsy; there is a reason Maxwell usually takes him on more exciting errands than this. He suspects that the liquor has not so much relaxed Jacob as lit a fire in him, which he supports by resting a hand at the small of Jacob's back as he guides him over to inspect a particular point on the map. Jacob glances at him sharply, drawing a breath that seems at once apprehensive and eager. When Maxwell does not return his look, but merely draws his attention back to the table, Jacob's hands curl in frustration.

It is tempting to see how far he can go before Jacob snaps and engages him, but Maxwell has never once forced Jacob to initiate any of their little exchanges. It seems to reassure Jacob that he is not the one in control, that he is always receiving Maxwell's affections but not soliciting them, except by the look in his eyes. The boy might panic if he had to be the one to reach out, to put his hands on Maxwell first. Or they might be there all night, Maxwell inviting and Jacob dancing around the idea.

After Jacob has given the plans a cursory glance (which is, Maxwell knows, all he will probably ever give them) and appears to be getting bored, Maxwell reaches out and places a hand on his waist. "Satisfied, my dear?" he asks.

"This is good to know," Jacob agrees, glancing at the plans as if he is trying to understand them. "We'll see if it's reliable."

"Don't doubt me, darling." Maxwell grins sharply. He tightens his grip so that Jacob looks up, and then lunges forward to kiss him. Jacob fumbles to respond, clumsily struggling to kiss him back yet yielding when Maxwell wrests control from him. His mouth tastes like the liquor, strong enough to burn and shimmer on the tongue, and like blood. 

Maxwell is not a nice man, and so he sees no reason to resist closing his teeth on Jacob's lip, tasting copper as the wound reopens. Jacob moans with what Maxwell imagines is horrified arousal, his hands closing on the back of Maxwell's shirt and dragging him closer. 

From there on it is wonderfully violent. Maxwell digs his fingers into Jacob's arse, practically feeling the marks it will leave on him, the angry bruises in the shape of his hand; Jacob's breath shudders and pushes against his mouth, and his lips part eagerly, desperately, when Maxwell's tongue rakes over them.

They kiss, madly, and this is the part which truly keeps Maxwell entertained: this is far from the first time they have kissed, and yet Jacob has never acknowledged it. 

(The boy currently clinging to him and clawing at him like a hungry animal will, afterward, pretend as if nothing has happened. This is how it goes every time; he will come back for more, but he will never admit why he is there in Maxwell's theater, in his carriage, in his home — Maxwell wonders if he even admits it to himself. The idea is fascinating. He knows he is the first man Jacob has ever allowed himself to touch like this, and he wonders how deep that well of self-denial runs.)

The things Maxwell would do to him if he were a more patient man. But even kissing him is a diversion which Maxwell can only tolerate for as long as it takes for Jacob's hips to begin jostling against his, Jacob's mouth falling open on an agonized gasp when Maxwell grinds firmly against his cock.

It's only the work of a moment to turn and push Jacob down on the table, sweeping the plans to the side and onto the floor. Jacob's hands fly up and for a moment Maxwell thinks he's acting in self-defense — then he seizes Maxwell by the shirt and pulls him forward, practically forcing Maxwell to climb onto the table above him. 

"Lie back, my dear; I have something for you."

"Oh?" Jacob asks, breathlessly.

Maxwell unbuckles his trousers. Jacob flushes, staring up at him, his eyes jumping from Maxwell's face to his cock. Innocent, yet expectant. He'll take Maxwell's cock the same way he takes his compliments — blushing to his ears, eager without true acknowledgment, dishonestly aloof yet burning under the attention. 

Maxwell grins at him.

Jacob's eyes are heavy with fascination and curiosity and fear, yet the only sound that escapes him is a hiss of pain when Maxwell reaches down to grip his face, palm pressing against the purpling bruise on Jacob's cheek. Maxwell moves up to straddle his face, listening to his labored breathing. He struggles to open his mouth wide enough to swallow Maxwell's cock with his split lip; his eyes squeeze shut with pain, or perhaps ecstasy, or both, and he grunts with effort when Maxwell pushes forward into his throat. He doesn't quite choke. He even struggles gamely to blink away tears without letting them fall, as if Maxwell won't see them. Maxwell strokes his face soothingly, fucking his mouth in steady but patient thrusts until last Jacob begins to adjust.

By then Jacob is whimpering around his cock, low and frantic sounds pitched from the back of his throat. A glance back proves Maxwell's theory that Jacob is straining at his trousers — enjoying himself thoroughly, or at least his cock is. Maxwell chuckles and pets Jacob's hair, cradling his face in his hands as he coaxes Jacob to take more. "Ahh, that's wonderful, darling. _Yes_ —"

The blowjob itself is sloppy and unskilled, but the helpless look on Jacob's face gives him an entirely different and far more powerful kind of pleasure. Almost too soon, Maxwell finds himself overcome by the sensation. Barely a heartbeat longer, and then Maxwell is snarling and pulling back, pinning Jacob's mouth open with his thumb. His other hand he wraps around himself, jerking until his come splatters across Jacob's lips and chin.

Jacob gasps and twists his face away, spluttering.

This, Maxwell thinks, was almost too much — almost enough to get Jacob to recoil from him — but he has no intention of giving Jacob time to think it over. He climbs nimbly from the table and insinuates himself between Jacob's sprawled legs, yanking open Jacob's trousers and sinking his mouth down on his cock. 

" _Roth!_ " Jacob yelps, bucking toward Maxwell's mouth. Maxwell pins him to the table and Jacob sobs, one of his fumbling hands landing on the back of Maxwell's head and pulling at his hair. Maxwell laves at the underside of his cock with his tongue and Jacob twists in his hold. "Roth — oh God, _Roth_ — please —" 

He comes down Maxwell's throat with a hollow cry and goes limp, slumping onto the table. Maxwell swallows and draws back, surveying the spoils of his triumph. Jacob is panting, an arm draped across his face, covering his eyes as if he finds the room suddenly overwhelming. And perhaps he does. Maxwell laughs, delighted, and strokes the tips of his fingers along Jacob's thigh. He is absurdly pleased that the only words Jacob has uttered for the last quarter hour are obscenities and Maxwell's name.

He imagines Jacob is also intimately conscious of the fact. Perhaps it is now sinking in that he was just laid out on his enemy's table and came crying his name. He _imagines_ that these memories have a tendency to haunt Jacob in the days thereafter.

"How about another drink, my dear?" he purrs.

Jacob gives a faint shudder and sits up, twisting himself away from Maxwell as he fixes his trousers. "I think that one was quite strong enough," he says.

"To bed, then. You look exhausted." Maxwell can hardly keep himself from laughing again at the spectacle in front of him. Jacob has the look of a man who drank seawater in a desperate attempt to slake his thirst. And now, coming up from under the water, he realizes his mistake.

"I should go," Jacob mumbles. He wipes his bloody lip on the back of his hand and leaves a red streak. He manages to stammer something about things he has to do, people to see, trains to catch — and then he's brushing past Maxwell, pushing open the window and disappearing through it.

Maxwell wonders if Jacob will ever stop coming back to make mistakes with him. 

No, he thinks. Not least because the dear boy has forgotten his coat.


	2. an imitation of joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roth feels like a knife between his ribs that slides deeper every day.

It's a funny thing. Ned's never been the type to let off steam by kicking someone's teeth in. Every so often, breaking some poor man's jaw is an unfortunate reality of his line of work, but Ned doesn't savor it. In fact, violence of all sorts turns his stomach a little, even if he wouldn't admit it. It's something his contacts like about him: Wynert gets the job done with no unnecessary sadism, no trail of bodies, and no weeping widows out for justice. 

And yet Ned finds the fight club relaxing.

He's not an idiot; he knows it's bloodsport, supposed to get the heart pounding. Most people are here to scream and bet and break bones. And Ned finds the whole thing kind of... soothing. It's a whole storm happening outside his head, all the fighters and onlookers blending together, and he just sits back and watches it happen. Every so often he'll throw in a few dollars on a wager, but he considers it more of a tip than an investment. It's where he goes to loosen up, to have a drink and watch the racket.

Also, if he's lucky, he'll see the Fryes there. Not that it's ever hard to find the Fryes, these days, but seeing them fight — especially half-dressed — is a spectacle unlike anything. Ned doesn't know where those two whirlwinds of destruction came from, nor does he really care. All he knows is that when they're around, he enjoys the view.

He watches Evie take round after round one evening as the deck of the ship rolls underneath their feet, a cool breeze pouring off the Thames. She's magnificent, and there's something deeply satisfying about watching her throw men twice her size out of the ring with their limbs twisted every which way. Her opponents stagger away in varying shades of misery and seasickness while Miss Frye, graceful as always, merely takes a moment in between fights to have a sip of water and tuck the occasional rebellious swipe of hair back into her braids.

Ned doesn't make much when he bets on the Fryes, given that the odds are always in their favor, but they're a thoroughly reliable source of income.

He tips his hat to Evie when she finishes with her last opponent and she joins him by the railing with a polite but careful smile. "Mr. Wynert. It's a pleasure."

"Pleasure's all mine." Ned's never quite been able to get a read on Evie, but he gathers she isn't one for small talk. Or maybe it's him she doesn't like talking to. Either way, he's a little surprised when she doesn't immediately make her excuses and disappear with her earnings. "How's business, Miss Frye?"

"Things are good," Evie says, and then the conversation stalls for a moment. Evie purses her lips, frowning over the railing of the ship. "Have you seen much of my brother recently?"

Ned frowns. Jacob's been scarcer than usual, come to think. "One of my people said he picked off half a dozen Blighters who were trying to kill her and steal back a couple crates of merchandise. That was a few days ago. And much appreciated."

Evie gives a curt nod. "I see."

"Why? Something the matter?"

She hesitates, and the answer is obvious, but after a moment she shakes her head. "No. I only wondered if you had sufficient protection on your shipments, Mr. Wynert. Jacob's been taking care of that?"

" _Has_ he." With the Blighters strong-armed out of the way, business is booming. Who'd have thought it? Ned's last real competition gutted by a pair of violent upstarts in a scrappy new gang. Of all the gambles Ned has ever made, none has paid off quite like his alliance with the Fryes. He grins. "I can't complain."

Evie smiles distractedly. "I'm pleased to hear it. Well…" She looks around, and he can see she's looking for a diplomatic way to end the conversation.

"If you'll excuse me, Miss Frye. I've got winnings to collect. Good night."

"Yes. Good night."

Ned watches her disappear over the railing of the ship, presumably bound to leap from boat to boat until she reaches the shore. He's never met anyone as disinclined to regular forms of transportation as the Frye twins. Hence the train, he supposes.

He collects his winnings and returns to shore, walking along the gathering dark toward the nearest pub for a drink. At the back of his mind, his conversation with Evie is nagging. He knows he shouldn't mind it, but he does. He can't help wondering.

What's the matter with Jacob Frye?

-

"Kneel, darling."

He slides out of his chair, the floor cold where his knees press into it. He's breathing, but only shallowly. His trousers are stretched uncomfortably tight around his cock. His skin seems to put off heat like a furnace, heat that gets trapped inside his clothes and threatens to stifle him. He lifts his head, craning his neck to see Roth.

Roth palms his cheek. His fingers are rough — workman's hands.

"Look at you," Roth purrs.

Jacob's mind buzzes unpleasantly at the mere thought of what he must look like in this position, lewdly kneeling at Roth's feet. His hands start to tremble where they clutch his knees, and he's relieved when Roth takes a cruel grip on his hair. Roth has him. Roth is the one doing this to him. And that makes it all right. 

He hears the rustle of cloth when Roth reaches with his other hand to undo the front of his trousers. He squeezes his eyes shut.

"That's it. Let go, darling."

He does.

-

"Where have you been?" Evie snaps, when he finally comes home.

Jacob smiles in a way he knows is maddeningly vague, glancing around the train. "Here and there. Where have you been, dear sister? How's Greenie?"

Evie's eyes narrow. "That's not an answer, you know."

"Yes, I do."

"What's wrong with you?" There's an edge in her voice that's probably worry, or something else he feels guilty for causing.

Jacob could tell her, he supposes. _I'm sorry for worrying you, dear sister. I'm only losing my mind._

Instead he makes a dismissive noise and turns away. "What isn't?" he asks. "As far as you're concerned."

"I haven't seen you in days, and you come back smelling like the river and covered in — is that mud? That had better be mud." Evie waits for his retort, and when he doesn't give it to her, he can practically hear her temper rising. "Jacob Frye."

"Yes, Evie Frye?"

"Have you done anything I asked you to do? You know, for the mission? Our mission?"

"No," Jacob says lightly. "But I did find this while you were here keeping your nose in your books." Out of his coat he draws the artifact — a Templar knife of some sort Starrick had been trying to smuggle before Roth discovered its location and fed it to Jacob. He tosses it on to the table behind him without looking, hearing it skid until Evie stops it with her hand.

"What is this?"

"You tell me," Jacob begins to say, but Evie is already talking over him, speculating over the design of the blade, its probable age, what sort of properties it might have. When he glances over his shoulder, she's thoroughly absorbed. He almost smiles.

But then her focus snaps back to him, and he can see she isn't going to let it go.

So he smirks instead and tips his hat to her, ducking towards the nearest exit. "Got to go. Just stopping through."

"Jacob —" He's out the door before she reaches it. As he sprints down the tracks in the opposite direction, he hears her yell: "Change your _clothes!_ "

-

Jacob's head is a mess. It's always been, but lately he can't stop his thoughts rattling around in his brain like pots and pans falling on the kitchen floor. Ever since he first went to the Alhambra, after promising Evie he wouldn't, because he was too proud not to. Ever since Roth first stepped too close, touched his cheek, pulled Jacob into his arms.

He can't stop thinking about Roth. About Evie. About his _father_. All the people he loves, except he doesn't know if he really loved his father, and sometimes he doesn't know if he and Evie fight too much to love each other.

And Roth? Roth feels like a knife between his ribs that slides deeper every day.

Jacob prefers the knife. At least it's a certain feeling. There's movement between him and Roth and it's going somewhere, even if Jacob doesn't quite know where that somewhere is. He knows that he and Roth are the same in more ways than one, ways that he struggles to acknowledge. He knows that the things they do together keep escalating, and he keeps letting it happen. He knows that the last time they saw each other, they went out together and robbed a couple of Templars trying to smuggle a caravan across the city. One of them tried to shoot at Roth, and Jacob killed him. Jacob killed him thoughtlessly, suddenly, the way he would've killed a man who tried to shoot Evie. The man was dead before Jacob knew what he was doing. 

The hidden blade had snapped back into its sheath. Roth had crowed his satisfaction while Jacob, unsteady, tried to sort out why he felt as though Roth had been the one to strike the killing blow. Afterward, Roth had — _rewarded_ him. Or at least he had called it a gift when he fed Jacob his cock, gripping the back of his skull mercilessly and fucking into his throat until his jaw was aching, mouth raw, so starved for breath that the pounding of his heart became a thunder in his head. The sickest part was that it did feel like a gift. Being used so roughly set his head floating free of the fear of what they were doing, the shame — it repurposed the shame, turned it to a boiling heat, turned his bones to liquid and burned every bitter thought out of his mind. 

He had almost wanted to thank Roth for defiling him.

His knees had been too weak for him to stand afterward, uncontrollably trembling. Roth had given him another drink, stroked his hair while he swallowed it down, purring how good he was, how beautiful. And it had felt wonderful for as long as it lasted, until he began to be able to think again. Then the shame had gone hot and sour in his stomach, the memory of Roth's hands on his neck making nausea rise in him, the things Roth had said to him — what he had called Jacob — _my dear, darling, greedy boy._

While Jacob was choking on his cock, tears in his eyes. _It's as if you were made for this._

Even now the feeling in his throat is cloying, and he thinks about scrubbing it out with sandpaper, eliminating every trace of Roth inside him. If such a thing is possible anymore.

He can hardly let himself be aware of it. The affair is like a dream, easily forgotten in his waking hours but nagging at the back of his mind, like something he knows he's forgotten. Nothing changes so long as he doesn't think about what happens to him in the Alhambra, in Roth's townhouse, in the alley behind the theater where Roth had caught him spying, once, and demanded a kiss as reparations — 

Nothing changes so long as he doesn't let himself change into the kind of man that Roth makes him in those moments. He always comes back to himself, disgusted and shaking, his father's voice ringing in his ears as loud and sharp as a slap across the cheek. And yet the next time he sees Roth the fire will be lit in him again.

So he keeps his distance. He decides not to go back until he can muster the restraint to reject Roth's advances when they come. He spends more time in his strongholds, rallying the Rooks, pushing their presence in the city. For a week or so, he manages to throw himself completely into the work and forget about Roth. Then they expand into Blighter territory, establishing a base in Westminster that flirts dangerously close to the Alhambra. Jacob is tense, wondering if this is going too far, but all he receives from Roth is a cordial invitation for dinner and a mission. Jacob tries to detect any subtext of anger or betrayal in the note from Roth, and finds none. Roth doesn't even seem disappointed that it's been unusually long since Jacob came to see him.

He's sitting inside at the Westminster stronghold and mulling over the letter when there's a commotion outside. He hears one of the boys shout, "Boss!" and gets up, wandering out to see a very disgruntled Ned Wynert restrained in the grip of a well-intentioned Rook.

"The little man said he wants to see you," the Rook says, at almost the same time that Ned snaps, "Frye —"

"Get your hands off Mr. Wynert," Jacob says, hastily. "Sorry, Wynert. New blood." He turns, catching the eyes of the interested crowd of new recruits that's gathered to the sound of the scene. "Everyone, this is Ned Wynert. He's a partner. Treat him with the same respect you'd show my sister and I."

He throws an arm around Ned's shoulders for good measure, as the Rook who was grappling with him slips away with a mumbled apology. Ned shifts uncomfortably under his arm, but doesn't quite shrug it off, and then follows Jacob inside.

"Your sister was asking if I'd seen you," Ned says. He's carrying a bottle of wine, thankfully undamaged.

"Well, I've been busy. She's seen me now." Jacob drops back into his chair, hastily sweeping the letter from Roth out of sight. "What can I do for you?"

"I wanted to congratulate you, for one." Ned deposits the wine on a table nearby and approaches Jacob, crossing his arms over his narrow chest. 

Jacob tries to muster a smile – he's happy to see Ned, he really is — but he's been too deep in his thoughts and can't pull himself out of them. He's... itching to see Roth, and he feels guilty for having been thinking about him when Ned arrived. "What's the occasion?" he asks, with not quite enough enthusiasm.

"Well, excuse me for thinking your conquering another piece of London was worth a toast." Ned seems unfazed by his reaction. "Something wrong? Bad time? I figured you'd be excited."

"Thank you," Jacob says, unsure of how to answer the questions. He stares at the wine. He's not exactly the best judge of the quality of alcohol, but it looks expensive. A present. "Is that for me?"

"No, it's for your sister." Ned laughs at the look on his face. "But since she's not here…"

Jacob laughs in spite of himself. "I won't tell her if you won't." He shoots a sly glance at Ned and Ned answers him with a conspiratorial grin. Jacob's heart gives an unexpected twist at the sight. It's nice to see Ned. They often quarrel, but then again, Jacob quarrels with everyone he likes. And Ned always has a smile for him, even if it's an exasperated one. 

"I've got a job for you," Ned says lightly, uncorking the wine and locating a couple of dusty glasses in an old cabinet.

"What is it?"

"I need some paintings moved across the city. Very valuable, very fragile. Not likely to survive if the Blighters decide to attack. I need someone who can make sure they don't get anywhere near that carriage." Ned catches his eye. "I'll throw in an extra twenty percent, on top of the usual payment."

"Sounds right up my alley," Jacob says, relaxing a little at the thought of something so straightforward to do. Of course, if Ned wanted him to transport the paintings himself he'd probably wind up smashing them — but killing any Blighters who come within a two-block radius of the paintings? That he can do. "I'm in."

Ned smirks. "I knew I could count on you, Frye." 

He pours the wine, talking in his reassured and animated way about the best train he robbed last week, and Jacob watches him. He finds himself leaning forward, smiling unconsciously. He's always found Ned a little magnetic, hard to look away from. He's a funny little man, twice as charming as he has any right to be, with a sparkle in his cunning eyes. Jacob's always looked forward to their meetings, to Ned's occasional visits and the gifts of jewels and trinkets he sometimes sees fit to skim from his acquisitions and deliver to the Fryes.

Jacob's always liked Ned in a particular way, enjoyed getting Ned to laugh, enjoyed teasing him. Ned's smiles and disapproving looks have always made his stomach flip with a feeling Jacob didn't recognize. He's never had anything to compare that feeling to before.

Now, with a growing sense of unease, he realizes that it's familiar. He realizes, when he can't tear his eyes from Ned's slender fingers curling around the stem of his wine glass, that the growing warmth in his stomach isn't unlike how he feels when Roth steps too close and reaches for him.

Ned notices him sitting there with his face turning pink. "You sure there's nothing wrong, Frye?"

There's everything wrong. There's everything wrong with _Jacob._ He knows that, but he's been managing to put it at the back of his mind, and now it's creeping into his everyday. Into his relationships with _other_ people, not just Roth. He swallows an enormous gulp of wine, and then regrets it; heat spills down his throat and into his chest. "I'm fine," he says, with effort, setting down his glass.

"If you need a shoulder to cry on, I've got some time," Ned says. He sips his wine and raises his eyebrows. "We could finish up the wine and get something, er, stronger."

Jacob feels a little sick, because he wants to say yes, and Ned wouldn't keep smiling at him if he knew why. He forces a crooked smile. "You, ah... don't seem like the type to offer your shoulder."

"Sure I do." Ned winks. "I'll just insist that you pay the debt to me later."

"How? By comforting you the next time you get your heart broken?"

Ned snorts. "Not likely. I don't do drunken heartbreak." His hand, resting on the table, slides an inch closer to Jacob's. "So? What do you say? I'll buy you a drink."

"No." Jacob finishes his wine in one unwise swig and gets to his feet, trying not to be too obvious about the way his body seems to be drawn towards Ned when he's not consciously holding back. "Maybe later, Wynert. I've got to — I've got to do something. Thank you," he adds, "for the wine."

Then he beats a hasty retreat. 

It's starting to feel like he's always running.


	3. play with matches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the end of the third day, Jacob is beginning to reconsider how much he wants to keep Ned alive if it means spending one more hour watching him do paperwork.

The letter arrives at Ned's Lambeth address, written in an odious hand and smelling faintly like the thick and cloying cosmetics they use in the theater. It begins _My Dear Mr. Wynert_ and what follows is an insistent dinner invitation, complete with expressions of camaraderie and friendship. It's signed _Regards, M. Roth_.

Ned stares at it for a good long time before he throws it on the fire.

He can't decide if the letter is a threat or an earnest attempt to get Ned on his side, now that the Rooks are officially turning the tide in their favor. Maybe Roth thinks he can ride out the storm by forging new alliances, keeping the Blighters strong and flexible enough to share London instead of being run out of it.

But the fact that the letter arrived at one of Ned's residences seems a lot more like an implication that Roth knows where he lives and will kill him if he doesn't agree to join forces. Neither death nor an alliance with Roth is an option that Ned relishes. He'll do what it takes to save his own skin, but he's made a good business out of avoiding Roth's type. The unstable, violent type. The _kills for sport_ type.

Nobody likes working with the guy who might pull your intestines out for a laugh.

Ned doesn't think he can stomach it (ha, ha) so the next best solution is to figure out which of his various hiding places Roth is aware of, watch his back, and hire some extra security.

Fortunately, he knows just the man.

-

"You want me to follow you around just in case someone attacks you?" Jacob asks, perplexed.

Ned nods. He glances away, shifting his weight on his feet. His demeanor is calm, but Jacob's been able to tell that he's on edge ever since Ned arrived on the train that morning. He shows it in his eyes, in the unresolved movements of his shoulders, like he's constantly stopping himself from checking behind him. "Had some threats," he says. "Who knows if it's credible, but I don't like to take chances. I'd just like you to make sure I get to my appointments in one piece."

That sounds a little indirect to Jacob. "Who's trying to kill you?"

Ned waves a dismissive hand. "Might be nothing. I'm looking into it. In the meantime, I just want somebody to make sure I don't go missing."

"You have bodyguards, don't you?"

"Somebody extra."

It's not that Jacob doesn't want Ned to be well protected, it's just that he doesn't understand why he should do it from a distance instead of, well, the straightforward way. But Ned is tightlipped about whoever his secret admirer is and why he's so damn jumpy, and eventually Jacob gives in. He'd rather be mystified than find Ned floating in the Thames one day.

Or so he thinks.

-

What Ned really wants is some clarity about Roth's interests. If it's really an alliance he's seeking, maybe Ned can string him along for a while, delaying the inevitable "no" until the Blighters have too little power left to retaliate. 

But like hell he's ever walking into the Alhambra with his own two feet. He sends one of his subordinates to meet with Roth in his place. She returns unscathed, but unsettled, saying that Roth had refused to have any dealings with her and instead sent his fond regards to Ned, with a demand that they meet face-to-face.

Well, that's all the indication Ned needs that Roth is plotting to forcibly recruit him... or kill him. 

It's just a matter of how long Roth will wait to see if Ned takes the bait before he comes after him. Whenever Ned has to go anywhere near Roth's territory, or make it back to one of his safehouses at night, he has Jacob follow him on the rooftops to detect any potential attacks before they reach him.

The only problem is that Jacob finds surveillance work incredibly boring, no matter how handsomely Ned is paying him. "If you'd tell me who it is you're worried about coming after you, I could just slit their throat and have done with it," he says, letting himself in through Ned's window to complain after a day of uneventful guard duty. "You'd be safer, and it'd be less dull."

Ned's not exactly set on coddling the Frye twins, and nor is he completely opposed to the idea of putting someone else in danger for his sake, but the idea of sending Jacob into Roth's lair turns his stomach a little. A quick diplomatic mission is one thing; an assassination attempt is another. Besides, if Jacob died, Roth would most likely put two and two together about who had sent him. And so would Evie.

Ned isn't sure how much he'd like his odds if he were down to one heartbroken Frye twin with Maxwell Roth still alive.

So he laughs and turns away. "Good night, Frye."

"See here, Wynert," Jacob protests. A bit of the fire seems to go out of him when Ned doesn't turn around or pay him attention, but he persists. "I'm a busy man. I can't keep protecting you from bloody ghosts."

"In case you've forgotten, I'm financing the weapons you keep fighting your gang wars with. Surely it's worth the time." He doesn't say it with a lot of bite, but enough snap to communicate that the issue is closed.

Jacob is silent for a minute. Then he mutters, "I thought you didn't like people doing you favors."

Ned turns on him. "You're not doing me a _favor_. I'm paying you to do a job."

"You're boring me," Jacob retorts.

Ned rolls his eyes. Just his luck that the most dangerous man he's ever met is also one of the most childish. An unrepentant killer who sulks like a kid — wrapped up in one big, obnoxiously handsome package. "I'm not trying to entertain you. Whatever you do in your free time would probably kill me."

An odd look flickers across Jacob's face.

"Or do you want me to get out a pack of cards?" Ned continues, eyeing him. "Play a few rounds?"

Jacob shrugs and turns his back, his demeanor changed. "You've got till the end of the week, Wynert. Then I want a name."

"Fine," Ned says blithely, with no intention of honoring that particular agreement. If it'll get Jacob to stop moping for a week, it's worth a little dishonesty.

-

By the end of the third day, Jacob is beginning to reconsider how much he wants to keep Ned alive if it means spending one more hour watching him do paperwork. He'd never realized how much of Ned's criminal enterprises amount to checking inventories and doing sums and staring for hours at blueprints and maps. And the more thrilling aspects of his work involve staring at buildings from the outside, meeting with his associates over lunch, and riding trains. He does a lot of riding trains. He claims it's to familiarize himself with the layout of different locomotives, the better to steal from them—but Jacob strongly suspects that he just likes being on the rails.

Either way, and perhaps it's just that Ned is more or less in hiding, but a great deal of Jacob's so-called guard duty winds up being no more interesting than sitting on the roof and keeping watch. Which is to say that Jacob is hideously bored. He tries pacing around the edge of the roof and flicking pebbles at nearby gutters to give himself something to do, but when he can't think of any other way to occupy himself beyond throwing knives at adjacent buildings, he starts to feel like he's going to crawl out of his skin long before he leaves Ned's employ.

He swings in through Ned's window, stretching and pacing across the floor. Ned looks up sharply from the map spread across his desk, pins stuck in probably strategic locations around the Thames.

"Did you see something?"

"No," Jacob says, meandering over to stare at Ned's map. "And I haven't seen anything the last three days, either. Are you sure somebody's trying to kill you?"

"For the last time, it's a precaution." Ned frowns at him. "I would've thought you'd be happy to make a bit of extra money for light work. No risk, plenty of reward."

"Then you don't know me at all, Wynert." Jacob doesn't want to admit that he's partially on edge because he's bored and partially because he hasn't seen Roth since before Ned asked him to be his bodyguard. "I need to do something. I swear, whoever's threatening you, I could have killed ten of him by now." He toys moodily with one of the pins Ned has lined up next to his map. "What are you plotting?"

"We need to delay a sailing so one of my agents can get hold of the cargo. I'm looking for the best place to cause an accident."

"What kind of an accident?"

"Nothing serious. They'll spring a leak, or something. Something small enough to avoid arousing suspicion of sabotage, but enough to keep them moored for a day or two while it's repaired. Meanwhile, the cargo disappears."

It's nothing Jacob has the means to help with. He stares at the map, all its locations blurring together. "Why bother with the delay?" he asks.

"The cargo's being taken from a secure vault. Heavily guarded, brought to the docks in an armed caravan. Nothing I want my agents going anywhere near — worst case, they'd be arrested or shot. But once it's been taken aboard the ship, they'll think it's safe. And then there's a delay, odds are good they won't bother taking it all the way back to the vault. That's a day's travel out of London. No, they'll lock it up somewhere much less secure. After all, what are the odds any thief would know about the delay and come looking for the cargo wherever it's stored?" Ned grins to himself, leaning over the map. "They get complacent. We get the goods."

"Or you could just hire the Rooks and their fearless leaders to storm the guarded caravan for you."

Ned gives him a look over his glasses. "And cause a panic, summon the police, and make every headline in London."

"So what? You must admit it would be faster."

"Faster, louder, bloodier. That's not how I work, Frye."

"Because _you_ can't." He knows it's insensitive; he sees Ned narrowing his eyes. But it's a way to vent the frustration that's been battering around in his chest for days now. "With us here, there's no need to skulk about—"

"And what happens if you're not around?" Ned's voice remains even, despite a hard glint in his eyes. "You know I've been running a business in this city for the last ten years? Trust me when I say I didn't make it this far by brawling in the street."

"I haven't been protecting your shipments with _subtlety_. And I haven't been shy about ridding this city of the Blighters, either."

"No, you sure haven't. And I've been on board with you, Frye, but that's what got me into this mess." Ned mutters the last bit, turning back to his desk. "Now I look like somebody who's willing to fight over territory, and now he's out for my head."

Jacob slams his hand down on the map. "That's what I'm saying! Don't back down, just give me a name!"

"Not a chance. I don't _want_ trouble, I want this to go away. If anybody who threatens me turns up dead, that says "I won't back down", and that's not the kind of reputation I want to have. I'll always avoid a fight if I can."

"Then I won't kill him, just rough him up and convince him that he has bigger problems to deal with than you."

Ned gives a dry laugh. "If you knew half what I do about that man, you would kill him."

Jacob screws up his face. "And you want me to just leave someone like that alone?"

"I don't want his death to have anything to do with me. The Blighters are losing their grip, anyway. A bit longer, and none of them will be any threat." Ned glances sidelong at him. "That's my final answer."

Jacob can't think of anything else to say, and after a moment of trying to out-glare Ned he deflates. "Will you at least give me something to do that isn't staring at the street outside?"

"Aren't you Assassins supposed to be good at staking out a location? Following a target?"

"Not for three days," Jacob snaps. "Not me."

"Just my luck."

"You could at _least_ have me stake out a pub every once in a while."

Ned stares down at his map for a long moment, then pinches the bridge of his nose. "You know what? I do need a drink."

Jacob brightens, grins sharply. "Yes. Of course you do."

"Come on, then." Ned heaves a sigh as he grabs his coat and hat. "I expect you to keep yourself dry enough to fight off a small army if I need you to, understood?"

Jacob lopes after him, his mood lifted by the prospect of going somewhere he can drink and sprawl and talk. "Don't worry about me, Wynert. Hasn't Topping ever told you about the time I defeated all comers after six pints at the King's Head?"

"No," Ned says, "but I'm sure you're going to."

"Right you are," Jacob says, and slaps him on the back.

-

 

Ned chooses a quiet pub, not the rowdy type of bar Jacob would've preferred. But Jacob does enjoy walking up to the bar at Ned's side, standing behind him like an enormous shadow and watching people edge away from Ned as a result. Playing the bodyguard isn't so bad when he can see the effect; anyone who might otherwise have taken Ned as an easy target, or a target at all, is now shrinking away.

Although he doesn't say so, Ned also seems to relax when Jacob places a hand on the bar beside him and several large men at the counter lean away from both of them. Only the bartender doesn't look intimidated. He reminds Jacob a little of Roth's doorman, blandly looking the two of them up and down before he asks, "Something to drink, gentlemen?"

"Bourbon," Ned says, with a flat, easy smile. He glances at Jacob. "Beer for the big man."

"Will that be on your tab, Mr. Wynert?"

"Yes, thank you."

There's a booth tucked into the corner of the bar furthest from the door, and Ned leads him to it. It's poorly lit and feels remote, something which Ned seems to find comforting as he settles against the wall and sips his whiskey. Jacob positions himself to block the view of Ned to the rest of the pub, and Ned eyes him appreciatively.

"Do you play écarté?" he asks.

Jacob nods, and Ned takes a battered deck of cards from the end of the table, beginning to pick out the appropriate cards and shuffle the rest. Jacob watches his hands, slender fingers, precise motions. "I used to play with Evie at the Oldbrook Tavern in Crawley when there weren't enough players for whist," he says, and smiles at the memory.

"That's where you're from? Crawley?"

"You didn't know?"

Ned shrugs. "I kind of assumed you and your sister just blew in on a storm one day."

"And you blew in all the way from America. At least, I assume. Where in America?"

"East," Ned says.

"East," Jacob repeats skeptically.

"New York." He deals out the cards. "That was a long time ago."

"Ten years?" 

"Mm." Ned flips over the last card. Ace of hearts. "Hearts trump."

It's not the kind of response that invites more questions, and Jacob can take a hint, but the part of him still reeling from the boredom of the last few days wants to pry. 

He picks up his hand. "What are we betting? Emeralds? Diamonds?"

Ned's smile is crooked. "As it happens, I did just find myself in possession of a couple of black diamonds. Not much to look at, but you might find them useful."

Jacob shakes his head. "I'd rather play for information. Whoever loses has to answer a question about himself."

There's a flicker of genuine displeasure in Ned's eyes, gone almost as soon as it appears, and Jacob knows he's hit on something. 

He's never dug at what Ned says about himself, because Ned has never made himself seem like much of a mystery; he's straightforward, almost excessively at ease with everyone he meets. Only the last few days seem to have worn him thinner, just as they've worn at Jacob. He seems strained, and a little evasive. It's odd to think of his straightforwardness hiding a more slippery disposition, but then, it's had Jacob fooled.

And now that it's occurred to him how little he actually knows about Ned, he can't help but be curious.

Ned rearranges his cards in his hand. "What if there's nothing I'm burning to know about you, Frye?"

"Oh, don't pretend you're not curious about my scars." Jacob has seen him absently looking at them before, more than once. "I'll tell you what, Wynert. If there's a question you'd rather not answer, you can give me a pound instead."

Ned snorts. "I'll give you another shilling for your necklace."

"Deal," Jacob says. He almost expects Ned to refuse, but Ned only purses his lips and starts the game.

Écarté requires a certain amount of haggling, which then dominates their conversation for a while. Jacob studies Ned as they play. It strikes him that Ned is usually more animated. His smile is still quick and friendly when it comes, but it seems reflexive, not genuinely at ease. 

In fact, Jacob is almost sure that Ned is smiling just because he's cheating. 

Nothing else in his face gives him away, except how deliberately calm he is, but Jacob is used to catching cheats. It's always annoyed Evie how much better he is at reading people, which he thinks is only fair considering how much better she is at reading books.

He has to admit, Ned is an excellent cheat. He wins the round by a thoroughly reasonable margin, and even manages to look appropriately surprised by the "luck" of his winning hand.

"Well done, Wynert," Jacob says, throwing down his cards and spreading his arms out along the back of the booth. "You win, fair and square. Ask me whatever you like."

Ned sweeps his eyes over Jacob's face. "The scars," he says.

"Which one? You don't expect both just for winning a round, do you?"

Ned sighs. "The eyebrow, then."

"I was a watchman in Crawley. There wasn't much to do except escort drunks home after dark and break up fights at the tavern every once in a while, but one night things got serious at the Oldbrook and one of the old men who was always getting into arguments hit me with a bottle." Jacob grins at the memory, mostly because of the look of sheer panic he remembers crossing his father's face when he came home. "It wasn't serious, but the cut bled so much that Evie and my father thought I'd lost an eye."

"Hold on," Ned says, leaning forward. "You were a watchman?"

"For years. Father insisted."

"Years of practice at keeping watch, and you can't sit on my roof for three days."

"I didn't say I was good at it."

Ned's mouth curls into a wry smile. "Well, I guess that was two answers for the price of one. Get me another drink, will you?"

"Yes, sir." Jacob gets up and makes his way to the bar with a swagger in his step. "More whiskey for Mr. Wynert, if you please. And another pint."

The bartender gives him an odd look, but serves up without a word. The other patrons eye Jacob with unease. Jacob returns the drinks to their booth and deposits the bourbon in front of Ned. "That bartender was looking at me funny."

"Probably because I don't usually play cards with hired muscle."

"Speaking of cards — I deal this time."

Jacob plays to win the second round, but Ned defeats him again. On the upside, winning relaxes Ned; he's more than halfway through his drink by the time the round resolves, and it must be strong, because there's color in his face that wasn't there before. "The other scar," he says, and Jacob tells him the story of how he nearly stabbed himself in the throat with a hidden blade when he was trying to imitate his father. It's quite a good story as Jacob tells it, and it makes Ned laugh harder than he might've laughed two drinks ago. He sends Jacob off for more drinks, and when Jacob returns he's smiling almost naturally.

He shuffles the cards for the third round and Jacob is watching his hands when he deals. Ned flips over the trump card to reveal a king, and says, "That's one point for me —"

"You had that up your sleeve."

"What?"

"Don't try to fool me, Wynert. I had a lifetime of watching drunks try to cheat at cards." Ned begins to protest, and Jacob reaches across the table, picking up the king and wagging it at him. "Cheaters forfeit."

Ned narrows his eyes, and for a second Jacob thinks he's going to pay the shilling or haggle with the accusation. But the bourbon seems to be loosening his tongue, or at least lowering the barriers Jacob never noticed he had before tonight. "What's the question?" he asks.

"Why London?" 

"I always liked the sound of London."

"That's not much of an answer. New York wasn't good enough for you?"

Ned's mouth gives a twist that seems involuntary. So perhaps New York is the sore spot. "It wasn't big enough for me," he says. "I knew there was opportunity in London. And I'd always liked the idea of London, since I was just a brat. Besides," he adds, in a lighter tone, "the accents. I like the accents. They're pretty charming."

"Oh, is that so?" Jacob grins at him. Ned blinks and looks away, rubbing his face with a reluctant smirk. "I _knew_ you liked listening to me talk."

"Not half as much as you do."

"You wound me, Wynert." Jacob leans forward on his elbows. "Is London everything you thought it would be?"

"Yeah," Ned admits. "You know, when I was a kid —" He hesitates, but then goes on. "When I was a kid, they'd always tell me, you know, how I'd never been to London so I couldn't know what it was like. They told me I couldn't know whether I'd like it or not. But I've liked it ever since I stepped off the boat. Loved it, even."

"How old were you?"

"That's more than one question, Frye," Ned mutters. "Eighteen."

"You're _twenty-eight_?"

Ned chuckles. "Don't tell me you thought I was eighteen now."

"No, I knew you must be older than Evie and I, but — you're practically thirty!" Jacob stares at his face, fascinated by how young Ned looks. Except, maybe, for his eyes and the subtle laugh lines gathered at their corners. 

No, now that he's looking, something about Ned does strike him as older. It might be the way he's watching Jacob back, his mouth carefully set, all the emotion in his face contained, only seeming to be let out as he allows it. Jacob can't imagine being so composed. Ned seems to run cool where Jacob is always boiling over, and yet he's not _cold_. Not always. His smile can be like a blink of sunlight. When he's happy. Jacob wishes he were smiling like that now.

God, he's handsome. 

The thought has struck him before, more as a passing observation than as a concrete fact, but it's never unsettled him as it does now, after his revelation about finding Ned attractive. The man is charming; it's only natural that Jacob should be a little charmed by him. But now, watching him across the table with several drinks buzzing around in his stomach, it doesn't feel nearly so innocent.

Ned raises his eyebrows at him. "People tend to say I look young." 

Jacob clears his throat. "Was — was London different when you arrived?"

Ned sets aside his hand of cards, seeming to concede at last that they're having a conversation. "The Blighters weren't nearly as vicious," he says. "They've only gotten worse. When I got here they were just another rowdy gang, not much worse than any of the others. But then they took over or destroyed the rest, one by one, and there got to be fewer and fewer safe smuggling routes through the city."

"And they got to be a nuisance to you—" 

"More than a nuisance. I've tried pretty much everything to keep out of their way."

"So you jumped at the chance to help us get rid of them."

Ned nods slowly. "I'd be lying if I said I hadn't had enough of getting robbed. Or… or having my agents butchered. I've lost count how many of my people got shot trying to sail cargo down the river or just move a shipment across the city in broad daylight. Hell, you've seen how the Blighters operate."

"I have." Jacob has met a few of Ned's agents — most of them are strictly thieves, and none of them struck him as trained fighters. The idea of them being caught and killed by Starrick's gangs sends a familiar shudder of loathing through his gut.

"That's the only thing that's ever made me think about leaving London," Ned says. He rubs at his brow with his thumb and forefinger. "Could never get used to having people turn up dead. S'too final. You know, you learn all about somebody, find out they've got a wife and a kid called Sally and then—"

He makes a faint, sharp gesture with his fingertips and looks away. 

Jacob has a sudden and stupid urge to reach across the table and grab Ned's hand. Ned would flinch, he thinks. And rightfully. But he still wants to. "You shouldn't have to get used to that. That's why I'm fighting them."

Ned shakes his head, slowly like it's weighing him down. He looks tired. "That's why I don't want this... situation to escalate. You might be able to fight off the Blighters, Frye, but you're right about one thing. _I_ can't. My people can't. We need to stay out of it until they can't retaliate anymore. Otherwise, there's a good chance that they start killing us, if only to get at you."

Ned's hand is right there, lying on the table. Jacob can almost feel what it would be like to touch it, to have Ned's fingers tucked against his palm. To squeeze it hard in reassurance. "We'll stop them," he says, in a gentler voice than he means to. He wants Ned to believe in him. "They don't stand a chance against the Rooks," he adds, more firmly.

"Well, I hope so."

"London will be free."

Ned glances at him with a dry smirk. "Where do you get all that confidence, Frye?"

Jacob shrugs, spreading his hands. "I've been right so far, haven't I?"

"Guess so." Ned tips back the rest of his whiskey.

His face turns very pink when he's drinking. Jacob wishes he could stop noticing, but he can't, any more than he can stop himself from noticing that behind Ned's glasses, his eyes are inarguably pretty.

He's trying not to think about what this means, but a voice in the back of his mind whispers that he needs to see Roth, needs to get — whatever this is out of his system. 

God help him if he can't.

-

Ned doesn't enjoy waking up the next morning.

It's not the worst hangover he's ever had, not by a long shot. But it comes with a dull, muddled feeling in his head that he hates. He wakes with his face buried in a pillow, his neck at an angle which he can instantly tell he's going to regret and his mouth dry and sticky.

Also, someone in his apartment is snoring.

Ned lifts his head slowly, grimacing as he does. Sure enough, there's Jacob, sprawled in a chair next to Ned's bed with his legs splayed and his head hanging, fast asleep and making a racket that sends daggers into Ned's skull.

And yet, bizarrely, Ned finds himself grimacing a smile as he reaches over to punch Jacob in the leg. 

"Frye! I don't pay you to sleep on the job!"

He's been told his voice can be downright piercing in the morning. Jacob seems to agree.

-

Ned's headache subsides into minor throbbing by midday, and after a few bites of lunch with Jacob, he's feeling almost cheerful—and unwilling to examine exactly why that makes him cheerful. He pitches himself back into work to help the denial along. During the drive to the docks and his next appointment, he does sums for the month's shipments, and does his best to ignore the fact that his current bodyguard—Big Tom—has extremely fragrant breath. Jacob is somewhere above them, clambering around on the rooftops; still, Ned can't quite get him out of his mind. But it's a pleasant distraction, the kind that makes him shake his head at himself.

His carriage trundles along. The chatter of passersby and the clop of hooves on the pavement make for a rhythmic, calming accompaniment to his sums.

Then his ledger goes flying out of his hands and hits Big Tom in the knee as their carriage comes to a violent stop, the driver cursing loudly outside.

"Ow," Big Tom says.

"What's the hell's going on?" Ned snaps, leaning toward the front of the carriage. 

Whatever his driver is about to say is drowned by the gunshot that kills him.

The horses start screaming a second before the passersby do. Ned scrambles off his seat and pulls his gun. A second later, the door to his left is torn open and a bullet catches Big Tom in the neck before he has time to move. Blood spurts from his throat and he gurgles helplessly, crumpling to the floor of the carriage while Ned gapes. An enormous man in Blighter red lunges inside the carriage, trampling over Tom's body— _corpse_ — 

The Blighter swings toward him and Ned fires. The first bullet goes through his head, but Ned keeps shooting until the man collapses at his feet, blood lapping at Ned's boots. Ned flattens himself against the opposite wall and takes aim at the door. "I'll shoot," he yells, and thank God his voice comes out high and clear —

But then part of the wall gives way behind him and he feels the draft a moment before he realizes the other door has come open and he's wrenched back against someone's chest, a solid forearm crushing his throat, squeezing the air out of him, squeezing the _life_ out of him.

He kicks and flails, blackness pulling at the edges of his vision. Then his opponent drops him — no, slams him into the ground, kneeling on his back, an agonizing sharp weight that makes him thrash in their grip. The Blighter grabs his wrist and twists it at such a vicious, wrong angle that Ned's fingers spasm, dropping the gun. He screams, but there's no air in his lungs, just his throat working frantically as he gags and struggles.

"Get him in the carriage!" another Blighter shouts.

The terrible pressure on his back lets off — but then someone kicks him in the stomach, so hard he blacks out. When he comes to there's blood in his mouth, one of his cheeks scraped raw from the pavement and his glasses shattered. One of the Blighters is hauling him up by his arms, dragging him down the street. Ned spits blood and wheezes for breath, panic shooting through him when he realizes he's going to be crammed inside a carriage, he's going to disappear, and Jacob is nowhere to be seen. Ned tries to throw his weight to one side, throw his captor off balance at least, but all she does is shake him so hard his teeth knock together and keep on dragging him like he's nothing.

And then she lets go.

Jacob descends like a sudden tornado, flattening the man next to Ned a moment before he puts his knife through the stomach of the one restraining him. Then he turns on the rest of the Blighters— but Ned doesn't watch. He scrambles back into the shadow of his own ruined carriage and gets his back against it, huddling close to the ground while Jacob deals with everything else. People are screaming everywhere, running, horses panicking, and distantly Ned hears the shriek of a police whistle. His vision is blurry without his glasses, left twisted on the ground.

 _Breathe_ , he thinks, _breathe, breathe_ —

It can't be more than seconds, but it feels like the noise goes on for hours before he hears Jacob shout, "Wynert!" He appears in front of Ned, eyes wide with concern and coat covered in blood, so much blood that Ned shuts his eyes involuntarily. It doesn't matter, because Jacob is grasping him by the shoulders and pulling him upright anyway. "Can you walk?"

"Yes," Ned says, tightly. When he flexes his wrist experimentally, pain tears up his arm and he's nearly sick. Jacob takes him by his good arm and drags him into an alley. Ned fights nausea with every step. 

Once they're some distance from the scene of the carnage, Jacob pivots and pushes Ned into the wall, hard bricks against his back in a grim little side street. He stands so close that Ned, for a terrifying and disorienting moment, thinks Jacob is threatening him. Or about to kiss him.

Then he realizes Jacob is shielding him with his body. Closing around him so much that he nearly blocks out the light. 

The moment of quiet as Jacob scans their surroundings allows Ned to notice how hard his heart is beating, his pulse threatening to drown him. He lets out a shuddering breath and Jacob steadies him with a hand on his shoulder. His fingers are thick and warm, and for a second Ned lets himself focus on that instead of everything else. Then he looks up and catches Jacob's eye and realizes that's a dangerous distraction with Jacob nearly pressing him into the wall. 

"Wynert..." Jacob is taking in the damage done to him, one of his hands hovering next to Ned's cheek for a moment before he lets it fall. He looks stricken by whatever he sees.

For once, Ned finds himself without anything to say. Except, "Where the fuck were you?"

"There were snipers on the rooftops," Jacob says, his face drawn. "I wasn't looking for them. I almost walked into one, and by the time I dealt with her, there was another — I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Ned slumps. _Snipers_.

He's almost flattered that Roth thinks he's worth the effort.

"Wynert, you've _got_ to tell me who did this."

"I will," Ned says, because he's shaken inside and out and can't think of what else to do. He's thinking of the two good men dead in his carriage. "I will if you get me somewhere safe." He's irrationally afraid that if he tells Jacob now, Jacob will run off and leave him to fend for himself. 

And right now, he's not sure he'd be standing without the strong hand gripping his shoulder.

"The train," Jacob says. "I'm not letting you out of our sight until this is dealt with."

His tone brooks no argument, but then, Ned's not arguing. Jacob steals a carriage on the next street and bundles Ned into it. 

Then he drives, and Ned buries his face in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has gotten away from me a bit, hence the expanding chapter list, but I'm FAIRLY CONFIDENT that it will be finished in 8 chapters. Thanks for the wonderful support and feedback, everyone. <33
> 
> Content notes! The story behind Jacob's jaw scar is based off [this gr8 post](http://rebornfromsea.tumblr.com/post/134797724415/more-ethan-frye-also-jacobs-jaw-scar); Ned's strategy for robbing the ship is a reference to a real diamond heist that Adam Worth actually pulled off (and which ultimately made the real-life Ned Wynert very rich, because he was hired to help Worth sell the diamonds); [this](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C3%89cart%C3%A9) is the card game they're playing; and according to his in-game bio, Jacob [really was a watchman in Crawley](http://assassinscreed.wikia.com/wiki/Database:_Jacob_Frye) until Ethan's death.


	4. bottom of the river

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roth smiles warmly at him, grinning as he takes Jacob by the arm. "What an unexpected pleasure, my dear. To what do I owe — "
> 
> "Upstairs," Jacob snaps. "Now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now would be an excellent time to revisit the warnings on this fic, js.

Jacob doesn't like Ned being so quiet. 

The train chugs noisily along its usual route, but inside the compartment, the silence is oppressive. Ned is slumped onto the couch, for once having made no comment about the mess or the clothes scattered on the floor. He's pale, and without his glasses he looks oddly naked. 

One side of his face is badly bloodied and bruised, and his left wrist seems to hurt him with every movement. But he wouldn't hear of having Jacob look after his wounds; he'd snapped at the very suggestion, taking the medical supplies from him instead and mopping at his own split lip, wincing as he rubbed salve into the cruel bruises on his wrist.

"Can you see without your glasses?" Jacob asks.

Ned grimaces down at his shoes. 

"Not well," he admits. "Enough to get by, but I can't read past a meter or two." He waves his good hand in an approximation of the distance, but drops it quickly, the gesture abrupt and unfeeling. 

"Do you have a spare?"

"I've got a set at my apartment in Whitechapel."

"I'll get them for you," Jacob offers.

Ned glances at him, although Jacob supposes he must be blurry to Ned's eyes. "I'd appreciate that." 

There's something not angry but decidedly sharp in his manner since they returned to the train, like he's prepared to lash out at a moment's notice. If Jacob hadn't seen the same defensiveness in him at the bar a few nights ago, it would surprise him now. 

Not that Jacob can blame him for being rattled. He'd been equally alarmed, not by the bloodshed, but by the look on Ned's face after the fighting was finished.

Even now, Ned is huddled against the arm of the couch in his shirt and suspenders, having torn off his ruined and bloodstained coat. He looks small and cold. One of Jacob's warmer jackets, the quilted one with green trim, is in its usual place — crumpled up under a chair until Henry or Evie comes in search of dirty laundry. It's not perfectly clean, but he didn't swim in the Thames in it, either. 

Jacob picks it up, shakes it out, and offers it to Ned.

Ned gives him a slow, skeptical look. "What?"

"You keep shivering," Jacob says. When Ned doesn't quite make a move to accept the jacket, he steps forward and wraps it around Ned's shoulders, leaving it hanging there. After a moment, Ned takes the coat by the sleeves and pulls it further around himself, its bulk swallowing his shoulders. He folds his injured wrist against his stomach, his jaw tight.

Jacob can't bear standing there and watching him hurt. "You promised me a name, Wynert."

Ned heaves a breath. His shoulders sink, and Jacob hates how defeated he looks. 

Then Ned asks, "What do you know about Maxwell Roth?"

Jacob's stomach fills with ice.

For a second he can't even speak, until Ned looks at him questioningly, the silence stretching out too long. "I know of him," Jacob manages.

Ned drops his head, shaking it slowly. "Well," he says. "I turned down his dinner invitation."

"What — what does he want with you?"

"Like I said, the Blighters are losing ground. I guess he's getting desperate. Or, knowing Roth, he might just want kill as many people as he can before he's done with." Ned presses his thumbs into his temples. "I thought I could wait him out."

"I'll — " Jacob wants to say _I'll kill him_ , but the words won't come out of his mouth. "I'll deal with him," he says instead, numbly.

Ned catches his eye. "You should take an army, Frye." 

"I _am_ an army."

Without his glasses to hide behind, the strain in Ned's face is obvious, the fear. "Listen. I've never met anyone who could get the upper hand on Roth. I've never tried, I like living too much. If anyone's going to, it'll be you and your sister, but for God's sake—be careful about it."

As if Jacob needs a reminder that Roth is dangerous when his eyes keep being drawn back to Ned's awful bruises, to his torn lip, to the memory of Ned's murdered bodyguard bleeding all over the upholstery in the carriage. To the memory of the carriage driver slumped over in his seat. 

"I'll go get your glasses," he says. "Henry's in the next car. Tell him if there's anything you need."

"Frye — " 

The hesitant note makes him turn around. There's an uncomfortable set to Ned's shoulders and he stares off to the side like he can't look at Jacob. For the first time Jacob thinks there's nothing false about him, just a reluctant honesty in his voice when he says, "Thanks."

Ned can't know that the feeling in his chest is wretched guilt. Jacob forces himself to smile. "I suppose that's another one you owe me, Wynert."

Ned gives a humorless laugh. "Don't push your luck."

Jacob turns and slips out before he looks up.

-

The window through which he usually enters the Alhambra is closed.

Jacob kicks it in.

He drops to the floor in a shower of broken glass, the shards crunching into gravel beneath his boots. The upstairs is deserted, and contrary to what he would've liked, no one comes running to investigate the sound. After a moment of waiting, he goes to find Roth.

It's midday, and so the theater is filled with actors and stagehands, musicians practicing at the piano and in the orchestra pit, sets being painted, props organized. Jacob moves silently down the stairs, unsure of why now he's so eager not to be seen. Not by these people, anyway. The cold rage in his chest has burned down to embers, but the moment he catches sight of Roth directing a gaggle of performers at the front of the stage, fury surges through his blood again.

He waits. It's several minutes before Roth turns around, going still when he sees Jacob standing there, watching him.

Roth glances at a man standing next to him, saying something brief and curt before he crosses the stage to join Jacob in the shadows. Nothing about his walk strikes Jacob as menacing or alarmed, the movements of a man who betrayed him. Instead Roth smiles warmly at him, grinning as he takes Jacob by the arm. "What an unexpected pleasure, my dear. To what do I owe — "

"Upstairs," Jacob snaps. "Now."

Roth looks gently taken aback. His eyes narrow and he stares into Jacob's face as if trying to dissect him. "Very well," he says, his tone cooling.

Jacob takes his arm firmly out of Roth's grip and gestures to the stairs. Roth takes the hint and walks up ahead of him, silent. They emerge from the stairs into one of the cramped rooms above the stage, where the noise of the theater below is muffled but still audible. Props are stored here, dusty mannequins modeling ostentatious theatrical costumes and boxes stuffed to the brim with mock weapons, set dressings, crowns, jewelry, furniture. As good a place as any for a confrontation.

Jacob whirls on Roth the moment they're alone. "We had a deal, Roth."

"And so we still do, as far as I am aware." Roth is curt, irritated. "Explain yourself, Jacob."

As if _Jacob_ is the one who needs to explain himself. "I told you to warn me if Starrick had any plans to come after my associates. Not to go after them yourself!"

Roth lifts his chin slightly. "I recall. And? What are you accusing me of?"

"Ned Wynert was attacked by your thugs," Jacob snarls, the image of Ned's wide and terrified eyes sharp in his mind.

"I had nothing to do with that, my dear." The affection in his voice is laced with acid and it stings, no matter how much Jacob wishes it wouldn't. Roth doesn't look away from his eyes, and Jacob can't look away either. "What makes you think they were acting on my orders?"

"He told me he refused your invitation."

"He neglected to reply, yes." Roth takes a step closer to him, and Jacob squares his shoulders against the urge to step back. Roth is smaller than him, vulnerable — Jacob could kill him in an instant. He's always held the power to kill Roth if he needs to. "And you say he was attacked? Did he survive?"

"Only by my intervention," Jacob says coldly. 

Roth's shoulders sink slightly. "His good fortune. Otherwise, they doubtless would have killed him."

"I don't know what you think you're playing at — "

"I didn't send them, my _dear_ boy," Roth growls. "I extended an invitation to your man because I worried for his safety. Wynert used to be anonymous to the Blighters, but since he allied with you and your sister, it's been apparent that he's building an empire in this city. His operations are protected by the Rooks; he steals at will from Starrick's ships and caravans. His greed is extraordinary. It's only natural that Starrick's gang leaders should try to take him out of the picture when their backs are against the wall, which _you_ have ensured that they are."

Doubt flickers in Jacob's chest, but he refuses to show it on his face. "Are you saying this is my fault?"

"No — I'm saying it was inevitable that they should turn on him in their final hour. So for your sake, and your sake alone, I considered that it would be best if the gang leaders believed they had a partner in Wynert, not an enemy. They would have left him alone until it was too late. I extended him an offer. Why Wynert didn't have the sense to accept, I could not tell you."

Roth is close to him now, watching him with narrowed eyes, demanding a response. And Jacob has the horrible feeling that he deserves Roth's ire.

"You didn't have to extend him any offer," Jacob says, trying to keep the anger in his voice. "You could have just ordered them to leave him alone."

Roth sighs, and somehow that sound, more than any other, is like a kick to Jacob's gut. "You're quite right, dear Jacob," he says. "I didn't _have_ to. But imagine, if you would, the position it would put me in if I ordered Starrick's gang leaders to ignore sabotage by one of the Frye twins' allies. You forget that my position is just as dangerous as Wynert's."

"You could tell them that you have other priorities. Redirect their attention. Focus them somewhere else."

"On what?"

"On the Rooks. On my sister and I."

Roth makes a chiding sound. "On the things I care about preserving."

He reaches up and touches Jacob's jaw, his fingers softer than they have ever been. Something seizes in Jacob's chest at his admission. "On people who can fight back," he hisses.

"And why would I do that when even an honest effort at protecting your associates makes you angry with me, my dear?"

"I'm sorry," Jacob says. "I thought — "

Roth’s eyes are sharp and cruel. "You thought that after all this time, I was ready to betray you."

Guilt is rising in him again, and it makes him angry, hopeless. "Yes."

"After everything we've been through together. After I put my life at risk to help you."

"You're hardly trustworthy," Jacob protests. "You're one of Starrick's — "

"And you could kill me in an instant. I've given you plenty of opportunities." Roth snorts, turning his back scornfully. "How foolish of me to expect that in return, I might earn a small measure of your goodwill. But I suppose you _must_ take Wynert's word."

Jacob feels frozen, torn by a childish urge to reach for the back of Roth's coat. "No, I… Roth, I just thought — "

"I'm aware of what you thought."

Roth is cold, one of his hands resting on a dusty shelf as he picks up a prop blade to examine it. He sounds brittle, as if Jacob hurt him. 

And what if he did? The thought strikes Jacob uneasily. Is he being… unfair?

Is it Roth's fault that Jacob keeps coming back to him? That he was distracted and scattered enough to let Ned be injured on his watch?

God, what if Roth really does care for him? A twisted affection is still affection, and Jacob has been allowing it, has been—

"I'm sorry," he tries again. Firmer this time. "I... misjudged the situation."

Roth doesn't turn around, but he gives a mirthless chuckle. "Ah! So he can be wrong."

Jacob steps closer and brushes his fingers tentatively against Roth's arm. "I was worried."

"So was I, that you were about to stab me for some imaginary slight." Roth sets aside the prop blade. He turns and grips Jacob's wrist, pushing it down, his eyes bitter and searching. "Stop making excuses, boy. If I am to be at your mercy, the least you might do is be certain before you condemn me."

"I'm _sorry_ ," Jacob says, his voice jerking up in frustration. He doesn't know what else he can say. 

Roth glares at him a moment longer. Then something in his face softens and he reaches up and takes Jacob's cheek in his hand again.

He pulls Jacob down to him, and Jacob's mind stutters as they kiss. 

"There, now," Roth mutters. "I can't stay angry with you for long."

Guilt is tightening Jacob's throat like the squeeze of a noose, and his skin is prickling where Roth touches him. A maddening and frightening heat in the air between them. "I just — I need to protect everyone."

Roth runs his fingertips down to the point of Jacob's chin. Jacob can hardly stand how gentle he's being; he wants Roth to seize hold of him. "Well. You're right, of course, darling. I _could_ tell the gang leaders to leave Wynert alone. And if it matters enough to you that you would barge into this theater in a fury... perhaps I will."

"Please."

"And then I will have your affections again."

A dim voice of panic stirs in the back of Jacob's mind at the prospect of admitting it, but he has already let Roth touch him. Kiss him. He can hardly back away now. Can hardly ignore the way his own heart is beating. "Y-Yes."

"I want to know that you truly want this," Roth murmurs, his voice dropping low enough to brush at Jacob's nerves. "That this is not merely a game to you."

He does want Roth. Craves him with terrible and consuming strength. He can't seem to escape that. "I do — "

" _Show me_ , Jacob."

Jacob knows exactly what he means, and shudders, his confidence bleeding out into the air between them with every unsteady breath. 

Roth wants proof of his affections. Roth wants what Jacob has never given him. Roth wants him to admit what he wants, to show him.

 _I can't_ is on his lips, but he thinks about Ned, curled up inside his jacket on the couch. Beaten. Even leaving aside the protectiveness he feels towards Ned — the strange, all-too-familiar tug of caring — the same thing might happen to any of his associates.

And if it does, it will be his fault. For being able to protect them, and failing.

He meets Roth's eyes and pushes down the fear that floods his chest. He can do this.

He starts to sink to his knees, grateful that the movement feels almost instinctual now — but Roth catches him by the hair, snarling his fingers into Jacob's hair and pulling him up again. "Not today, darling. Although I do appreciate your enthusiasm."

Jacob wets his lips, ashamed by his eagerness. "What do you want me to do?" he asks, and his voice comes out fainter than he wanted it to.

Roth surveys him thoughtfully, his fingers stroking at the back of Jacob's head. "Over here," he says, his voice still low enough to strike a chord that plucks at Jacob, stirs him. And he guides Jacob a few steps to the right, to a prop table that stands at hip height. 

He takes Jacob's coat by the lapels and pulls it off him, dragging it down his arms slowly enough to make Jacob shiver. He drops it to one side. 

"Now bend over for me," Roth says, with heat.

Jacob hesitates, his fingers skating over the rough wood of the table. Roth has pushed him before, grabbed him and thrown him down, and Jacob has never fought him but has also never had to offer himself. Somehow the prospect of offering himself is so much worse. So much more… obscene. He turns slowly, his own breathing loud in his ears as he leans over the table and angles his hips back until he feels Roth pressed against him. He forces himself to speak. "Like this?"

"Yes, darling, that's right." Roth's hands settle warmly on his waist, stroking his hips. The praise settles some of the unease in Jacob's chest, but it isn't enough to allow him to drift as he usually does, to feel unmoored in his own skin. He feels it all too keenly when Roth divests him of his trousers, letting them fall around his ankles, the drafty air standing the hair on his legs on end. "Now — what do you think I want?"

"You want —" Jacob shudders, tries to push the words out through his teeth. "You want to… You want to fuck me."

"And?"

These words are so much worse. When Jacob breathes in, it's like his breath has turned to pins in his lungs. "I w — I want you to." 

On the exhale, the pain becomes even sharper. _I want this_.

"I shouldn't have been quite so angry with you," Roth says softly. "You have been so good for me."

Jacob can't speak through the shame that clogs his throat. 

Roth has slick — from where, Jacob doesn't know — and when his fingers stroke into the crease of Jacob's ass, they slide into him easily, despite the fact that Jacob feels agonizingly tense and tight around them. Jacob drops his head forward to rest on his arms, breathing hard into the space between his mouth and the table.

Roth has horribly clever fingers, and they stroke at Jacob like they've known what he needs all his life, rubbing pointedly at places inside him until his cock is hard and he's rocking his hips back. It doesn't take long at all for his arousal to be obvious, his face burning and his stomach twisting with sick desire. Like this, he can almost forget who and where he is, give himself over to the sensation crawling through him. But there's Roth to remind him — " _Perfect_ , Jacob." Rewarding him. Spurring him on.

It's only when he begins to strain upward, bracing his elbows on the table so he can rut against Roth's fingers, that Roth takes him.

He grabs the back of Jacob's neck in a grip like iron and pushes him back down flat against the table, pinning him there while he kicks Jacob's legs wider apart and stands between them. Even after his fingers, his cock is thick enough that Jacob cries out when he pushes in, hastily turning his head to muffle the sound against the table. But that's not what Roth wants. His nails prick at the back of Jacob's neck and his voice is rough when he says, "Let me hear you, darling."

Obeying takes no exaggeration on Jacob's part; Roth pushes deeper and he moans before he can stop himself, a hoarse sound that feels raw in his throat. The pleasure is puncturing, a sickening feeling that builds between his legs as Roth fucks into him. The rough and unyielding surface of the table scratches against his cheek, keeps him grounded where he doesn't want to be grounded.

He's already fighting the dull pulse of panic when Roth slows. "My dear," he says, and something about his voice isn't as reassuring as before. "I wanted you to show me. Show me how you want me to fuck you."

Jacob sucks in a slow breath, trying to steady himself. He can't, he thinks, he can't, but Roth's other hand is pushing up the back of his shirt, warm on his skin. "I know," Roth croons. "It is difficult to admit what we want, isn't it. Especially when the whole world is lined up to tell us how wrong we are. But I understand you, Jacob. I do."

And if only anyone else would, then perhaps Jacob wouldn't flush at the words, finding it in himself to nudge back, to thrust himself in shallow strokes onto Roth's cock. He slowly works himself into a clumsy rhythm, digging his fingers into the table for leverage. 

Without Roth moving, he can't take his cock as deep as he wants, as deep as Roth wants. It's not enough. 

It's not enough. He wants more — he needs Roth to move, to fill him up. He needs it with sudden, sharp, horrible clarity. He _wants_ this man to fuck him. He wants any man to fuck him, and he wants it so badly he'll take it from Maxwell Roth. 

Not for Ned. Not even to protect him. Because Ned didn't bring him to this place. He brought himself here for what he _needs_.

He stops moving and slumps into the table, his skin crawling. He can't bring himself to move.

"Jacob," Roth says, a warning tone in his voice.

"Please fuck me," Jacob whispers.

Roth takes a sharp breath. 

" _Good_ boy," he murmurs. 

And he thrusts in so hard the table rattles under them and Jacob scrambles for purchase, his legs trembling under him as he sobs for more. God—no—he wants out of his own head so badly, he doesn't even realize he's pleading for it until he recognizes the words on his breath. 

" _Yes_ , darling."

Roth gives it to him. Slow, hard, steady, and deep, Roth fucks him for what feels like hours, until the pleasure is a dull knife between his ribs and he can hardly breathe for it. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. It feels so good and it _hurts_. The sounds he's making ring strangely in his ears until he realizes he isn't moaning, he's sobbing, salt in his mouth and spit on his chin. He didn't realize he could make sounds like that. He's never cried this way from pain, but this is so much better and so much worse than any pain he's ever felt, the pleasure tearing him in half.

When Roth reaches down and closes his fingers around Jacob's cock, the sudden surge of sensation makes him yell hoarsely and helplessly, stars behind his eyes when he squeezes them shut. All of a sudden he can't sink into it, can't escape it, can only pant and claw at the table as Roth drives into him from behind and jerks his cock with rough efficiency. His orgasm takes him so violently he nearly blacks out. 

It feels like burning. He knew it would.

-

Jacob doesn't come back that night.

Ned waits for him motionlessly for a while, in a sort of daze as his mind runs through the scene of his near-abduction over and over again, trying to think what he's going to do. How he's going to keep Roth from killing him before the Fryes take him out. 

_If_ they take him out.

Henry pokes his head in a few times, politely inquiring if there's anything Ned needs. Ned sends him off. Other than that, no one disturbs him; he hears Rooks getting on and disembarking every time the train stops at a station, but they don't intrude on Jacob's car, which leaves him alone with his thoughts. Usually, he'd appreciate that. But as the day gets on, Ned starts to feel strangely abandoned, and thinks he'd almost welcome an interruption.

Honestly — and he hates being honest with himself — it's because he's anxious for Jacob to come back.

He fits his arms into the wide sleeves of Jacob's coat and pulls it closed across his chest.

-

"Mr. Wynert?"

Ned blinks and lifts his head from where he'd left it lying against the back of the seat. He hadn't meant to doze off.

Evie stands in the door of the compartment, her hand resting on the frame. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were sleeping."

"That's perfectly all right, Miss Frye." Ned sits up straight, self-conscious that he's wearing her brother's coat, every part of it too big for him. "Pardon _me_ for dozing on your train."

Evie starts when he turns toward her and she sees the other side of his face. "What on earth happened to you?"

"I know, I know — I look like somebody who tried to go toe to toe with you in the fight club." Ned offers her a smirk, although he can't be sure it comes out with its usual shine. In a way, he'd have preferred a nastier wound, so long as his face weren't branded like this. He hates showing weakness, and for a man of his size, that means looking pristine. It's hard to make a face full of bruises look intimidating when most people have to stoop to be on your level.

All the same, he's touched when Evie looks concerned, closing the door behind her and moving closer. "Did your attacker see justice?" she asks.

"Attackers," Ned corrects her. "Your brother took care of them. In his usual way."

Evie looked startled. "Jacob did?"

"Bodyguard duty. I'm glad I asked him." 

"Yes, he — he did say he was doing some extra work for you."

He almost says _I owe the two of you_ , but he feels like keeping the favor between him and Jacob. "I might have had it if it weren't for him."

"I'm glad your injuries weren't more serious. And… I'm glad Jacob was there to help you." There's something hesitant about the way she says it, as if she isn't used to being glad about things her brother does. Which wouldn't overly surprise Ned. "Where _is_ Jacob?"

"He was just going to pick up my spare glasses," Ned says, but as soon as he says it he realizes how much the light outside has changed since Jacob left. Sure, they weren't close to Whitechapel, but the Fryes travel quickly — and it's been six hours at least. "He's taking his time."

Evie's brow creases. "Well, you know Jacob. He might be lost."

"You mean he might've gotten lost in a pub."

"... Yes."

Ned grins, and Evie smiles back, which is a rare pleasure. "Well, I can't say I blame him for wanting a drink."

"What do you drink, Mr. Wynert?"

"Whiskey, if you have it."

"I'll see what I can find." Evie sweeps out. Ned watches her go, thinking that's the friendliest she's been toward him since they met, then picks himself up off the couch gingerly and brushes out Jacob's coat. It's long on Jacob, so it's well down to Ned's knees and probably makes him look about four feet tall. Still, it's warm.

And he likes the way it smells. Which is probably a bad sign.

He feels better after a little sleep, grounded again after the panic of the attack. The memories are still hanging over him, but his mind is quieter. His face and wrist are aching, but that's nothing a drink or two won't fix, and it's a pain he can tolerate easily. He's perusing the library when Evie comes back with a bottle of scotch and a glass. "Here you are," she says, placing both atop the safe by the sofa. "You don't mind waiting for my brother, do you? He has no right to ask you to wait for him if he's going to be gone all night. I could send him to find you once he returns."

"If it's the same to you, I prefer my chances in here to my chances out there. Maxwell Roth is trying to get his hands on me."

"Roth? Maxwell Roth?" Evie's eyebrows draw together. "What does he want with you?"

Ned isn't sure anymore. "An alliance, I think. Or he did before I turned down his invitation."

"He tried to lure in Jacob as well," Evie says. When Ned looks at her in surprise, she shakes her head. "He didn't accept, of course. It was obviously a trap. I suppose we're lucky Roth's goons haven't shown up here."

Ned thinks about Jacob cutting his way through the Blighters surrounding his carriage and although it still turns his stomach, he feels a twinge of bitter satisfaction. "I imagine they'd be scared to." And with luck, they'll think twice about coming after him again. "Do you mind if I stay, Miss Frye? I don't want to take advantage of your hospitality."

"I'm sure Jacob won't mind if you stay here until he returns." Evie approaches him, giving his attire a tentative look. "Did he… give you his jacket?"

"Er — I'm borrowing it."

Evie smiles, raising her eyebrows. "I wouldn't let whatever he's rolled in rub off on your clothes."

"I think it's a little late for that." Ned looks away, sweeping his eyes over the spines of the books in search of a new topic of conversation. "While I'm waiting, any recommendations?" He need something to occupy his mind or he's going to go back to thinking about the bodies in the carriage.

Fortunately, Evie has no shortage of suggestions.

-

He wakes to the sound of a heavy thump and Jacob swearing to himself.

Ned rolls over on the sofa, peering at the bulky shape bending down to pick up a few books he'd knocked on the floor. 

"Where the hell have you been, Frye?" he grunts.

"Sorry to wake you," Jacob mumbles.

"Nevermind that." The train is rumbling along softly; the light peering in through the curtains is pale, past sunrise. "You could've told me if you weren't planning to be back yesterday."

There's a pause.

"I forgot about your glasses." Jacob's voice is quiet and hoarse, raw enough to make him sound sick. He straightens up.

"Forgot?" Ned squints, trying to get a better look at him. He can barely see Jacob's face, but it looks… "You look like shit, Frye. What happened?"

Jacob clears his throat. "I dealt with Roth."

"You what?" Ned sits up, his heart beating faster. He doesn't know if he's more relieved or baffled. "You're serious? He's dead?"

His heart sinks when Jacob shakes his head, staring at a point on the far wall. "We made a deal," he says. "The Blighters won't be coming anywhere near you again."

That starts the alarm ringing in Ned's ears. 

"What deal?" It doesn't make sense. His head is racing trying to make logic of it. Jacob Frye isn't the kind of man who walks into the Alhambra looking for a fight and emerges with a compromise. Unless —

No. " _What_ deal?"

"That's…" Jacob bites off the words. "That's none of your concern." 

"Was this your _first_ deal with Roth?"

Jacob's hesitation is all the answer he needs. "You're safe, Ned," he starts to say.

"It wasn't, was it?" Ned can barely get the words out, too angry. "You've been working with him?"

"Not so loud," Jacob hisses, with a look at the door to the next compartment.

Whatever other emotion used to be warring in Ned's gut is drowned, now, by fury. "Why's that, Frye?" he spits. "Afraid your sister might hear? Funny thing she told me, she said you turned down an invitation from Roth too — "

"Ned, _please_."

"You lied to her too? Good, that's good. I don't feel special."

Jacob's shoulders sink, and while he's blurry at the distance Ned sees him, he looks like he's caving inward. "I didn't lie to you," he says angrily, his voice starting to rise. "I protected you."

Either Jacob's trying to fool Ned or himself, and Ned doesn't care which it is.

"Funny," he says. His stomach is churning thinking about the bodies littering the street again, and Jacob in the middle of it all, covered in their blood. "Protected me by throwing in your lot with the man who had two of mine shot in the street and tried to do the same to me. I'm so grateful, I could cry."

"It wasn't him," Jacob snaps. "Those weren't his footsoldiers. Roth wants an alliance, and if you'd let him —"

Ned barks a laugh. "If I believed that, I'd be a bigger idiot than the one he's playing you for."

Jacob's shoulders stiffen, and he pales visibly. Though he works at it for a moment, he doesn't seem to have a retort handy. "I need a drink," he mutters finally, and stalks towards the door.

"Next time you want to do business, send your sister." Jacob stops for a moment, almost looking over his shoulder. "I don't work with Roth. And I won't work with anyone who does."

"Fine," Jacob says. His voice has slouched back into something flat and toneless. He leaves without another word, leaves Ned there.

The one problem with trains is it's hard to storm out of them. 

Ned gets as far as the compartment door before remembering that the train is in motion and he, unlike a certain pair of twins, can't just throw himself out on the tracks when he feels like disembarking. He seethes as he turns around, glad the car is empty aside from him.

He's furious more with himself than with Jacob. What the hell was he thinking? Mooning around for a day and a night thinking he could trust Jacob to keep his word because his eyes were big and green and pretty. 

Thinking nobody could look that sincere or make him laugh so easily if they were playing him. 

He knows better. But God damn if he hadn't allowed the stress get to him enough to make him want to believe in Jacob. And there's nothing more dangerous than wanting something to be true. 

There must have been a sign he missed, he thinks, some indication that Jacob was playing both sides, but he can't think of it now. Probably because he'd been too busy with his indulgent little fantasy about the Frye boy looking out for him with his cozy smile, sweet eyes, big strong hands — 

_Idiot_ , he thinks, viciously, because the thought still stings. It occurs to him now that he's never even been afraid of Jacob. Should be. Should have been terrified of putting his life in someone else's hands.

_You know where that gets you, Wynert. Face down in the river._

He realizes his injured wrist is throbbing because his hands are squeezed into fists and forces himself to relax — physically — rolling his shoulders and shaking out his fingers. He takes a seat. He's got time enough to come up with a plan before the train rolls into the next station, and he sorely needs a plan if he's going to survive without Jacob's help.

He doesn't need the Rooks. Doesn't need a bunch of clumsy, violent, anarchist brats catching the attention of everyone in London while they cover his back. No, he needs his own thieves. Quiet, quick, and out of sight. Most of them already have the talents necessary for spying; he'll repurpose a few to keep an eye on Maxwell Roth and all his movements, and next time, he won't be in the carriage when the Blighters descend on it.

He's almost calmed down when he realizes he's still wearing Jacob's coat.


	5. an old solution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All action need not be violent, need not be a swift stab to the heart or the spine. Jacob has been bruised and cut enough in the last few weeks, sometimes even at Maxwell's own hands. He needs a reminder that here he is understood, indulged, entertained and adored. He has been shamed and stretched thin. Now he must be taught to trust.

Maxwell is inclined to orchestrate. Life comes to him scene by scene, with lush sets and stirring soliloquies, vivid and beautiful. Often, though not always, he finds himself content not to play a starring role, but to direct. With a gentle guiding hand, he finds, reality can be persuaded to be far more alluring.

It makes him an artful criminal; Starrick is not the first to appreciate his propensity for the plot and pacing of a heist, an interrogation, a murder. But planning robberies and assassinations is not his true calling. 

For one thing, for a burglary to be called successful, it must have a certain outcome. A guarantee of victory. There is little room for tragedy, romance, or a stunning twist of character. Maxwell prefers the possibility of drama and suspense, and finds no satisfaction in a story with a predetermined ending. He prefers to set the stage, prime the actors, and see what happens when the inciting incident spurs the players to action.

For example, when he invites Jacob Frye to dinner.

They have seen a great deal of each other in the days since Maxwell arranged for Wynert's near-execution. Jacob was at first hollow-eyed and snappish, frequently pacing Maxwell's floor and getting angry at the slightest provocation. He would not speak of Wynert at all. Maxwell had soothed him with promises of violence and retribution towards the Blighters, Templars, and whoever else he seemed to fancy killing at the moment. He had taken Jacob on simple, vicious outings. Straightforward assassinations and kidnappings. He had guessed, correctly, that doing the types of things he is most skilled at would settle Jacob's wounded ego and fragile pride.

And he had stayed in Maxwell's bed at the end of each night. Shyly at first, then with false confidence and bravado, settling his anxious body alongside Maxwell's and sleeping heavily, but restlessly.

It was as if he had nowhere else he felt he could sleep.

So when the time comes to prepare an evening that is just the two of them, Maxwell makes sure that Jacob will find it extremely pleasant.

He takes special care with the presentation of the meal, arranging for an extravagant yet comforting feast, hot spiced bread and creamy, tender slices of meat, crusty and buttery pies and rich, sweet wine. A table setting that speaks of home in the country and smells faintly of the outdoors, and candles for warmth and a touch of romance. And much as Maxwell adores the backdrop of the Alhambra, the scene demands that they meet in Maxwell's home, a quieter and more intimate setting.

All action need not be violent, need not be a swift stab to the heart or the spine. Jacob has been bruised and cut enough in the last few weeks, sometimes even at Maxwell's own hands. He needs a reminder that here he is understood, indulged, entertained and adored. He has been shamed and stretched thin. Now he must be taught to trust.

Maxwell is just lighting the candles when Jacob climbs in through the window, as is his custom. Maxwell turns, and greets him with a smile. "Ah, the guest of honor makes his entrance."

He drinks in Jacob's reaction. The subtle widening of his eyes. The curiously bashful way he stares from Maxwell to the dining table, as if he cannot believe this is all for him. The wonder in his face as he slowly comes further inside and realizes the extent of the decoration. And his slight, curious inhalation as his nose catches the scent of the food, the candle smoke, the grass and pine of the table setting.

"What's all this?" he asks.

"I told you we were having dinner, Jacob."

"I —" Jacob stumbles over his words. "Is someone else joining us?"

Maxwell understands his question, but he plays deliberately coy. "Why should there be someone else?"

"It's — so much."

"Ah," Maxwell chuckles. "You don't think I would do this for you, darling? Just you?" He catches Jacob as he hovers by the window, pressing a hand into the small of his back and leading him to a seat. "Think again. Tonight is for you and I. No one else. We have... business to discuss."

"What business?" Jacob murmurs, allowing Maxwell to draw out a chair for him.

Maxwell serves him a hearty portion and pours him a glass of wine before returning to his own seat. "The business of Starrick. His hold on the city weakens by the day. Your gang is on the verge of controlling London. The time to strike is soon, before he realizes how vulnerable he's become."

Jacob grunts in what seems like agreement. He has a drink of the wine and tries to conceal his pleasure at the taste. "All we need to do is get to him."

The look on his face when he bites down on a succulent slice of pork is one of startled ecstasy.

"I suggest another round of sabotage, my dear. Put an end to his production, cut off his supplies, ensure that he is helpless. But kill him before he realizes the extent of the danger."

Jacob nods. "Take him by surprise." His grin has a feral edge.

The darkness under his eyes is still heavy, his manner still uncertain, but Maxwell can see him unwinding. Relaxing. Feeling taken care of. His smiles are freer, less posed.

And he has surprisingly proper table manners when he isn't being deliberately and boastfully inappropriate. Perhaps all he ever needed was to be seated at a proper table.

He's ready, Maxwell thinks.

"In that case," Maxwell says, "meet me at the theater tomorrow. I'll expect you no later than five o'clock. And together, we'll strike a decisive blow against Starrick's manufacturing."

"I can hardly wait," Jacob says lightly, and grins when Maxwell smiles at him.

"How do you like the wine, darling?"

The color in Jacob's face is answer enough for him, but he still enjoys the reply: "It's bloody good. Not that I'd know much about wine."

"The point is to appreciate it, dear Jacob. Nothing more."

"I... think I can manage that."

"I'm sure you can."

He takes Jacob to bed that night, gently leading him by the hands and pulling him down into the sheets. 

Jacob still hesitates, and doesn't speak, and his eyes are nervous. But he settles quickly in Maxwell's arms, curling an arm around his waist. The fullness and the sweet haze of the wine have taken hold of him; when Maxwell strokes him, he shudders and tips his head back willingly in a naked invitation for Maxwell to kiss at his throat. And when Maxwell nudges apart his thighs and settles in between them, Jacob makes no protest, only swallows and fixes his eyes on the ceiling above them.

"I have you, darling," Maxwell murmurs, when he pushes in.

He angles deep so that Jacob will gasp and whine and squirm beneath him, unconsciously rocking his hips to feel Maxwell's cock. Maxwell braces himself over Jacob. He cages Jacob in his arms, and Jacob doesn't try to break free.

Is it really a cage if he doesn't try to break free?

Jacob sleeps like the dead that night, but Maxwell lies awake, tracing affectionate circles on his hips, half-dreaming.

He believes that Jacob is broken, at least in a certain sense. Broken of his morals, flimsy though they were to begin with. Broken of his pride. Broken of his decency. Certainly he had behaved that way after Maxwell fucked him in the alcove above the theater; his knees had buckled and he had sunk to the floor, sobbing like a child. He had been unable to speak for some time, and allowed Maxwell to coax him into bed, to hold him. When he had regained the ability to express himself, he had refused to acknowledge their dealings once again, but it was plain to see on his face that the damage had been done. He had disappeared in the morning, leaving Maxwell without so much as a goodbye.

And yet he had returned to the theater after only a few hours had passed, a look on his face that said he was once again alone and without hope. Maxwell had taken him on, of course, giving him the kindness he was so clearly lacking.

Now the time has come to see how much Jacob cherishes that kindness.

-

This scene is not entirely manufactured. The workshop does belong to Starrick. The Templars guarding it belong to him as well.

But the Blighters waiting in the shadows belong to Maxwell. Their presence is a sad necessity, a safeguard in case this scene does not play out as Maxwell hopes it will. In case the boy is not broken after all.

The day of his final test dawns in bloodied gold, proceeds to sunshine, and is making its way to a glowing evening when Jacob arrives at the theater. "This way, my dear," Maxwell says, leading him to the carriage, and Jacob follows him like a pup, eager and intrigued.

He presses against Maxwell's arm more than necessary as they drive, and speaks amiably, animatedly, about the task ahead.

"Try not to kill anyone," Maxwell advises him, as they stand overlooking the workshop. "The fewer bodies, the less likely anyone is to raise the alarm. And the more likely we are to catch the villains unawares. Let them burn up in the very fires of industry Starrick has stoked to his cause!"

"Hear, hear," Jacob says. He looks fully alive in a way he hasn't in days, a wolfish look on his face as he descends.

Maxwell remains at a safe distance as Jacob sets the charges around the workshop. It's hardly appropriate to begin celebrating yet, but he can't repress the excitement beginning to swell in his chest. It's been so long. So long since somebody truly interesting swept into his life, and none of his past lovers compare to Jacob. None of them could boast his strength or his brutality or a fraction of his potential. And none of them have followed his orders quite so easily.

And the twist is coming. The twist which Maxwell prepared for him, savoring the construction of its thrills, the delicacy of its execution. A moment of horror which will surely, swiftly, give way to the satisfaction of a job well done and the realization of true freedom. Freedom from self-censorship, from the constraint and toil of petty morality. Freedom to let nothing, nothing, stand in his way.

It will be the greatest gift Maxwell ever gives him, no matter how long they spend together. And he can hardly wait for its unwrapping.

He grins widely when Jacob returns, slightly flushed with an enthusiasm Maxwell shares. "The charges are all set," Jacob says. "They'll all go off if one is lit. I made sure."

"My wonderful boy," Maxwell growls, and grabs him for a kiss. Jacob stumbles away, protesting that someone will see, but Maxwell can see the hunger in his eyes.

After this, Maxwell thinks, they will return to the Alhambra, and Maxwell will fuck the regrets out of him, will fuck him out of his mind, will fill him with bliss and welcome him back as a new man, a _partner_.

He walks to the edge of the building and signals to the Blighters waiting below. "Ready —"

" _Wait!_ " Jacob screams.

Maxwell whirls around, sees Jacob suddenly turning toward him, white-faced and stricken. He strides forward and seizes Maxwell by the arm, a terrible urgency in his face. "There are children in there!"

He had expected some weakness, some fear of crossing the boundary, but not this degree of terror and hand-wringing from a man who had seemed so refreshingly accustomed to violence. "And? There's no time to waste, my dear."

Jacob looks uncomprehending, pleading. "What are you talking about? We have to get that dynamite out of there —"

"Darling," Maxwell interrupts. He laughs. "Starrick uses child labor to manufacture goods. We are putting an end to his production, like you wanted. If we destroy his factories, remove his laborers…"

"Not like this," Jacob snaps. "Never like this, my _God_ , Roth! We have to free them, not kill them to strike a blow at him — "

Maxwell feels his stomach turn. "And why not," he snarls, his throat growing tight with a feeling of betrayal. "Why not? You and I can do as we damn well please, my boy, and no one can stop us." He shakes his arm out of Jacob's grip and grasps the boy by his collar, turning him roughly to look at the workshop. Jacob, stumbling, allows himself to be turned. "Now _watch_. Watch, and learn, and soon you will understand what it is to be free, as I am."

Maxwell had hoped to deal with Jacob's revelation in the aftermath, to let Jacob struggle with the deed once it had already been done, but even then he had hardly imagined Jacob acting so kittenish.

Still — he hopes —

He leaves Jacob there and stalks back across the roof toward the men gathered below. "Light 'em up, boys!"

" _No!_ "

A heavy weight slams against his shoulder, knocking him off balance and nearly off the roof as Jacob shoves past him and leaps. 

Maxwell gapes, but in the air Jacob does not look so much like a man falling as a bird of prey descending for a kill. He dismembers one of Maxwell's footsoldiers and lands, apparently unharmed, turning to glare up at Maxwell with sudden hostility in his eyes.

"We're not playing games anymore, Roth!"

He doesn't wait to hear Maxwell's response before turning and sprinting up the alley towards the workshop.

Maxwell clenches his hands into fists and stands there overlooking the corpse of his man below, blood spreading beneath him in an inexorable stain. He breathes through his teeth as fury and disappointment sicken him. What a miserable and regrettable thing that he had prepared for this outcome without ever _believing_ it would come to pass.

But now is not the time to mourn.

-

The dynamite erupts as Jacob reaches the yard, spraying the courtyard with fire and shattered glass.

_He's a monster._

The explosion lifts him off his feet and throws him to the ground, skidding him nearly back to the gate. When he lifts his head, the sight before him sends his heart plummeting through the ground and sends sheer panic racing through his veins. 

_How could I have missed it?_

He scrambles upright, throwing himself in through a broken window and finding the workshop wreathed in flame. The small bodies in the dark are silhouetted black or thrown into eerie, flickering firelight. Some of them are stumbling around, their hands up to shield them from the heat, and some lie motionless.

_He was going to kill them all._

Jacob hurls himself at the nearest door, slamming his shoulder against it until it gives and bursts open, listing outwards on a broken hinge. "This way!" he bellows, and a few of the children closest to the door make a break it. But many of the others are stunned, or unconscious — he prays that they are only unconscious — and Jacob lunges back inside, scooping a limp child up in his arms and seizing another by the hand to drag them towards the door. "Follow me!" he shouts at the others. Unthinking, he sucks in another deep breath to yell, and smoke fills his lungs.

_I was going to help him do it._

He doubles over outside the door, hacking and coughing as his chest burns. Then he whirls around and races back inside, frantically searching in the dark as fire consumes the corners of the room, catching the workbenches, eating its way towards the heart of the workshop. Once the ceiling begins to collapse, it will be too late for anyone still inside.

Jacob doesn't know how many times he plunges back inside the burning factory, sweat pouring down his face and sleeves catching in the flames, until he is certain the ground floor is clear. But the upstairs — he senses no movement above, but can't be certain he would catch it over the creaking of the timbers of the workshop and the crackling of the flames.

Outside, the children are helping each other, picking up and dragging those still unconscious or too weak to stand away from the rippling heat. Jacob finds the breath to shout, "Find Clara O'Dea, and tell her Frye sent you," before he turns and takes in the upper floor of the workshop. The flames are only now reaching it, but they've nearly overwhelmed the first storey.

Jacob takes the climb at a run, scrabbling up the wall towards a window with the panes blasted out. He smashes his way through what remains of the window frame and rolls into the room. 

Immediately he realizes his mistake: the entire floor is filled with choking black smoke that sets his eyes stinging and his throat prickling until he begins to cough, accidentally sucking in more of the smog when he tries to breathe. It's a long moment before he can pull himself up from the floor, one sleeve pressed tight over his mouth and nose, only to realize that the room is boiling hot and he can't see a thing. He backs against the window, stilling himself and focusing hard. Listening for even the faintest shred of a child's breathing or the softest cry for help, even the movement of fabric across the rough wooden floors. There's nothing, and nothing, and nothing. And then the floor begins to creak and whine beneath his shoes as the building starts to collapse.

Jacob scrambles back over the still, turning to gauge the height of the jump to the ground below. But instead of the ground, he sees the small army of Blighters waiting for him in the courtyard below.

_Waiting_ for him. Weapons drawn, faces upturned toward the window. And Jacob has an inferno at his back.

But _God_ is he ready for a fight.

Two have already taken aim at him. Jacob swings himself to the right of the window and one of the shots, but the second gunshot rings a moment later and it feels like a punch of iron through his shin. 

The shock makes him let go of the sill, and he tumbles inelegantly to the ground, landing hard on his shoulder. His right leg is a streak of pain below the knee. He rolls over and shoves his kukri through the chest of the first man who comes at him. It rips out with a satisfying spray of blood, and Jacob whirls on the next-nearest Blighter, hurling the blade into their skull, where it sticks.

A heavy blow strikes him in the center of the back, and his right leg gives underneath him. Jacob turns his fall into a roll, coming up on his good leg and putting the hidden blade through his attacker's stomach.

Then something smashes into his skull from behind with a wooden thunk. The world goes black.

He comes to moments later, flat on the ground, feeling the Blighters wrestling his hidden blade from his wrist. He yells with rage and thrashes, but there are at least five holding him down. His twisting unseats one of them, but then another stomps on the back of his neck and forces his shoulders back to the ground, their boot grinding cruelly into the ridges of his spine. He feels the blade torn free of his arm and cuffs snapped on to his wrists.

"Gag him," Roth says.

Another Blighter grabs him under the chin and wrenches his head up high enough for a rag to be forced between his teeth. Jacob snarls, unable to see more than the boots of his attackers. At least a dozen of them, maybe more. 

But he recognizes one pair of boots in particular. Roth approaches slowly as his henchmen bind Jacob's feet together with thick rope, trussing him up like an animal for slaughter. He presses the toe of his shoe under Jacob's chin, digs at his Adam's apple. "You didn't think I'd let you turn on me, did you, Jacob?" he mutters. "I want those ropes tight, boys. We're going for a ride."

Jacob gets another look at Roth's face when the Blighters pull him upright, bound so that he can hardly move a muscle. Roth's face is set in a rictus of anger and disappointment, his eyes burning as he looks Jacob over. Jacob hardly recognizes him. It's as if all the kindness and understanding has been stripped from the lines of his mouth and eyes, leaving only a hateful skull.

_This is him. This is who he's always been._

He doesn't want to know, doesn't want to remember, that this is the man who held him last night. If he vomits into the gag, Roth will probably let him choke to death.

"Get him into the carriage," Roth says coldly. The Blighters drag him out of the alley and throw him onto the floor of a waiting cab, trampling over him with their boots as they settle onto the seats around him to ensure he doesn't escape.

They drive for a long time, and when they finally stop and pull Jacob from the carriage, the sun has gone down. He recognizes St Pancras.

The handcuffs around his wrists are so thick they're practically manacles, and no matter how much he strains against them, he doesn't feel any give. The ropes around his ankles are probably not as strong, but shortly he's being dragged, with no opportunity to wrestle free and kick his feet loose. 

Not that it would help. They reach the alley beside the station and Jacob has sudden, eerie notion of what Roth plans for him. He jerks violently in his bonds, but has no room or leverage to move, and the men dragging him barely seem to notice that he's struggling.

Roth does, though. He casts an eye at Jacob, smiling grimly. "You begin to catch on, then. We are, as always, synchronized."

Jacob growls at him, muffled through the gag, fury mixing with the first punch of true panic in his chest. If he could, he has an idea that he'd kill Roth so violently he'd hardly know himself afterwards.

Roth's thugs drag him onto the railway track, near the station but around a bend so that anyone waiting for the late train won't see him. "Get him comfortable," Roth says. He stands back, watching with a remote look in his eyes while the Blighters throw Jacob down on his back and bind him to the tracks, never mind his futile efforts to writhe free. One of them— big, tremendously strong— shoves him over, shoves his face into the gravel and kneels on him while they free one of his hands from the cuffs just long enough to thread its chain beneath one of the rails.

He yanks at it, but the way he's bound, he can't pull his hands away from the rail hard enough to even try to unseat it and free himself. With his legs also tied to the tracks, he can barely shift himself at all. And the cold that spreads through his body is as much an admission of terror as the revelation of the night chill finally reaching him.

Roth hasn't taken his eyes off Jacob for a moment. "I've an eye for detail, my dear." He glances down the length of the train tracks, into the distance, as if searching for something. "I've paid great attention to you. But not only to you; to the things around you. To the schedule of that train you hide in. It should be arriving at the station in perhaps three quarters of an hour. Although I imagine it will face a considerable delay shortly after that. Unless the operator fails to notice you at all." 

He laughs, and so do his men, although Jacob notices that even some of them look frightened, sickened. 

"I only wish I could be there when your sister learns how you died."

Jacob's blood turns to ice. _Evie_. 

He screams into the gag, throwing himself against his restraints with fresh anguish. His death would be one thing, and he doesn't want to die. But for Evie to have to know that he died helpless and useless, that it was their train that crushed him, their new home, the home they were supposed to share together — his feet scrabble for purchase in the gravel, unable to strike the ground at an angle which would allow him to buck against the chains and the rope. 

He can feel the iron cuffs scraping his skin raw, and his wrists will give before they do. He knows that with awful certainty, but can't stop trying to wrench himself free.

Roth watches him for a while, the way an artist looks at a canvas in between strokes. He waits until Jacob gives in to a moment of exhaustion and slumps back, and then turns to the crew of Blighters with an air of command. "Well done," he says, almost graciously. "Now return to the theater. I'm afraid we shall have to fortify it against the wrath of this man's sister. And I have a few private words for Mr Frye before he leaves us."

The other men go, and the two of them are alone. Roth watches Jacob in contemplative silence for a time, walking a slow circle around his body on the tracks, studying him from every angle, then looking up to meet Jacob's furious eyes with a bitter smile.

"My darling," he says. "I truly thought better of you."

Then he kneels beside Jacob, placing a hand on his chest that is terribly warm against the cold. He strokes at Jacob absently with that hand; with the other he reaches up to take Jacob's cheek in his palm, digging in his nails when Jacob tries to twist his face away. "I am sorry to see you like this," he continues. "I imagine that to you this seems like a horrible death. Painful, gory, a spectacle of the worst kind. To say nothing of the effect it will have on your sister and everyone else who loves you. Myself included." Jacob feels a rush of loathing, nausea. "Oh yes, Jacob, I do love you. And I've never loved you more than I do now, no matter how much you disappointed me today."

Roth pauses, and if there's genuine emotion in his face, Jacob is too filled with hatred to see it. "I want you to know, darling, that this is a magnificent death. It may in fact be better than you deserve. This is a death fit for the stage." His eyes are dreamy, vivid. "I plan to adapt it into a legendary work if your sister leaves me with the opportunity. You may yet kill me, through her. But you were worth the risk to me, Jacob. I want to see you immortalized." His grip suddenly tightens in the front of Jacob's shirt, his nails digging in, leaving cruel bruises. "The bravest man in London. A weak and needy boy, so _hungry_ for the touch of a man he didn't dabble in sin so much as throw himself in head first. And yet he could not bring himself to complete the transformation. You make quite a tragic hero, darling."

Roth's voice is the sharpest point in the darkness, stabbing at Jacob. All he can think about is Evie. He's abandoned her, abandoned what they set out to do together, and when he dies it'll be even worse than if she never knew why. Roth will tell her — no, he'll tell everyone what Jacob was. Evie will have to live knowing that the two of them weren't alike after all. That the one thing they've always had — each other — is tainted forever.

And all because of what he wanted. Because he couldn't help himself. Because he's sick, selfish, vile, wrong, and _queer_.

"I'm trying to console myself that I could never have changed you," Roth sighs. His touch is gentle on Jacob's cheek now, and as he speaks he begins to stroke Jacob's hair away from his face, seeming not to notice Jacob crying and trying to chew through the gag to get at him. "I truly hoped that the business with Wynert would break you of your moralism. I thought I had. But there is something poetic about your weakness of character. I will miss so much about you, my dear dear boy. All your wasted charms and talents."

The truth of that strikes Jacob in the chest like a thrown blade and he flinches, squeezing his eyes shut.

"I'm holding a memorial for you, darling. Tomorrow night. Corvus the Trickster. I'll write an invitation for Wynert, and another for your dear sister." Jacob's eyes fly open and he struggles violently at the mention of them both, but Roth pays him no attention. "It was to be a celebration," he continues, "had you joined me. Don't worry; it won't be vulgar, only a proper sendoff for a boy I was so very fond of."

His hand slides down to Jacob's abdomen, petting him, and Jacob shudders, fearing his intent. But Roth only sighs, looking discontent. "There is no easy ending for us, is there. And little more to say."

He bends down and presses a kiss to Jacob's lower lip, just beneath the gag.

Jacob could tear his throat out with his teeth.

_You've destroyed me._

"Well, my dear. I suppose I've kept you long enough. The train will be coming before long, and I want you to have plenty of time to contemplate it before it arrives." Roth stands up, out of reach. "Good night, Jacob."

All Jacob can do is glare up at him, his eyes wet with pointless, angry tears, his fingers beginning to go numb in the cold and the rest of his body shaking. He's never wanted to kill someone so badly, and he's never been so willing to do anything to save himself. For Evie. For Ned. For everyone —

He hears the roar of a train whistle in the distance and his whole body braces in anticipation, as if knowing it's coming could soften the blow.

"Ah!" Roth says, sudden and pleased. "I nearly forgot. This will sweeten the anticipation." He kneels beside Jacob again and lifts his head to rest in his lap while he draws from a pocket a long strip of black cloth. Jacob realizes his plan a moment before the cloth settles over his eyes and is tightly, cruelly bound at the back of his skull, shutting off even the weak light of distant gas lamps. He makes an involuntary and pathetic sound into the gag.

"I would love to hear your last words for me," Roth says wistfully. "But I can't risk you drawing attention. This is goodbye, then."

And then he leaves. 

Jacob listens desperately as his feet crunch away across the gravel, until he can't hear Roth walking at all and he's alone. Alone and nearly choking, because his nose is bloodied and congested from having been ground into the dirt and when he tries to breathe through his mouth it comes rasping through layers of filthy cloth. With increasing hysteria he keeps trying to push the gag out of his mouth with his tongue, so that he can at least hear himself scream.

He knows what he would have said to Roth if Roth had given him the chance. He would have promised him anything, begged for his life, offered his body and whatever was left of him to be ruined. Because at least then he might have spared Evie from this.

He had thought, when the frantic words began to form in his mind, that pleading with Roth would be the worst thing he had ever done. 

But it was far worse to be denied even the chance.

He fights. He twists and thrashes and kicks and slams his body against the rails in the mindless hope that something will break and free him. He tries to throttle his hands out of the cuffs until his wrists are wet with blood. He screams himself hoarse. And all the while his body grows colder, more sluggish, and the darkness of the blindfold presses in harder.

Finally, he weeps, uncontrollably. The tears rolling down his face seem as far outside his power to stop as the train thoughtlessly thundering down the tracks toward him.


	6. we're catching bullets in our teeth

"Wynert."

Sends a shiver right down his spine. Ned doesn't like that voice, or so he wants to think. It's low in his ear, teasing and sweet and deep. It scrapes across his senses and leaves him taut in the shoulders while Jacob's mouth presses against the shell of his ear.

"What the hell are you doing here, Frye?"

 _Here_ being a dark alley near the docks, where Ned has made all manner of criminal transactions.

Maybe he's about to make another. Feels that way, with Jacob's breath warm on the back of his neck. "I thought you needed a bodyguard," Jacob purrs.

"I do," Ned admits, which he's not meant to do — he doesn't, he doesn't need Jacob, at least not to protect him. "But I don't trust you."

"Don't you?"

"You're working with Roth."

Jacob laughs gently in his ear. He kisses the crook of Ned's neck, his stubble rough and mouth wet on Ned's skin. "So?"

He takes Ned's shoulders in his hands and turns him around, pushing forward until Ned's back is against the wall of the alley and Jacob is caging him in. Grinning at him with that boyish smirk, those soft and dangerous eyes that Ned has felt on him before. Ned's breath catches in his throat, because he recognizes this scene, only this time he isn't bruised and bleeding and Jacob's big, strong hands are wrapping around his hips beneath his jacket and Jacob _does_ kiss him. 

Not on his mouth, like Ned wants, but on his throat, like he craves. Hard, biting kisses that make him squirm and rise up on his toes, clutching at the back of Jacob's shirt. 

Jacob is rough as he pushes Ned against the alley wall, hitching Ned up until Ned's legs are wrapped around his hips and his cock is grinding against Ned's stomach, and Ned can't help that he's giving himself away, letting Jacob know exactly how much he wants him when he moans, breathy and high and honest, and knocks a heavy volume of naval history off his desk.

Ned recoils back in his chair. "Fuck. _Fuck_."

His cigarette is still smoking in the tray on his desk, and his glasses are bent to hell, barely hanging off his ears. His book, which had apparently at some point begun serving him as a pillow, is on the floor. He tries to pick it up with his injured hand and drops it again when his wrist throbs sharply. "Shit."

He grabs the book with his good hand and levers it back onto the desk with a little more force than necessary. He fixes the bent frames of his glasses, and grimly takes stock of himself. Hot under the collar. Flushed. The back of his neck is still tingling.

Well. That's a new low.

He flexes his left hand and winces. The bruising around his wrist from the Blighter attack is still ugly and vivid, but it's the pain that shoots into his fingers that worries him more — a deep, tingling discomfort that suggests a worse injury. He probably ought to get a splint for it, but he hates the idea of broadcasting to the world that he's in poor shape.

He picks up his cigarette and takes a long drag. He thinks about sticking his good hand down his trousers and finishing what Jacob started in his dream, but he doesn't feel like rewarding his own bad behavior. 

The thought of Jacob keeps itching at him. Their confrontation in the train should've been the end of it— and if hearing from Jacob's own mouth that he was working with Roth wasn't enough, Ned had spent the following days learning through his spies that Jacob was, apparently, Roth's personal attack dog. They spend so much time in each other's company that some of the thieves have started calling him _Roth's boy_. And no matter how he tries, Ned can't wrap his head around it.

He doesn't trust anyone, and he hadn't trusted Jacob, but he'd started to. And it rattles him to think he could have been so wrong. Maybe that's why he can't get Jacob off his mind.

But dreaming about him is new. New, stupid, and damn embarrassing.

Ned flips his book open again, determined to give his mind something else to chew on. And he's grudgingly getting absorbed in the finer points of historical piracy when someone starts banging on his door.

Well, banging isn't quite the right word. It's a series of loud but precise knocks. A passcode Ned instructed his spies to use.

He leaves his cigarette in the tray and goes to answer. Before he reaches it, the knock repeats, faster, and a voice hisses, "Boss! Open up!"

He unfastens the deadbolt quickly and pulls the door open, and Millie Davies all but spills inside. 

She's a coltish girl, tall and lanky, generally mistaken for an unremarkable boy. Ned has a soft spot for her on that account, and she's one of his better thieves for spying duty, having a genuine talent for blending into the scenery. And she's not usually dramatic, so when she rushes in looking like she's got the queen's secrets to spill, Ned straightens up. "What's this about?"

"So I was tailing Roth, right." She follows Ned across the room to his desk, where he pours her a drink and picks up his cigarette. "And he was with the Frye boy, like always."

Ned frowns. "Yes?"

"They went for one of those factories the Blighters are always pretending not to guard. Looked like they were planning sabotage, which I don't get, because I figured they were all on the same side — " Millie pauses to swallow a mouthful of whiskey. "Anyway, all of a sudden Roth blows the factory and Frye goes crazy. Kills one of his people — Roth's — and goes running off into the workshop while it's burning, starts dragging the workers out. All of 'em kids." She waves her hand at hip height for emphasis.

Ned takes a drag off his cigarette, grateful that his accent sounds flat to most Britons; it disguises any interest that might be in his voice when he asks, "He turned on Roth?"

"Yeah. Roth didn't take it kindly — he had a bunch of big guys waiting for Frye outside the workshop. They beat him up and hauled him all the way to St. Pancras and left him on the railroad tracks."

Ned goes cold. " _What?_ "

"I didn't know if you'd want to go in for a rescue, boss, but I figured you'd want to know, right?"

He snuffs his cigarette violently, skin suddenly crawling at the thought of a train whistle he'd heard earlier in the evening. "How long ago? Did Roth leave a guard on him?"

"Not that I saw. They all cleared out. And I came straight here. There might be time —"

 _Might_ be is good enough. "Then tail me. Give me a warning if anyone in red comes close, got it?"

Millie slings back the rest of her whiskey and nods. Ned already has a pistol on his hip and a knife in his boot, because a man can't be too cautious. He goes for the door.

"Boss," Millie says, abruptly. "There's one more thing."

Ned stops with his hand squeezing the doorknob and snaps, "What?"

"Before Frye turned on him, Roth, uh — " She gives a little shudder. "Roth kissed him. That's strange, right?"

Ned blinks once and decides he has no time to ponder that.

"Don't think much of it," he says. "You never know with Roth. Now let's go."

-

He hails a cab and snaps at the driver to _hurry, damn it_.

On the grand scale of stupid things he's done in his life, Ned has to admit he's preemptively ranking this near the top of the list. Rushing off into the dark with no protection, no real understanding of the situation, and no damned interest to himself. And for a man who betrayed him, who joined forces with one of the worst lowlifes in London, and who's had the indecency to haunt him ever since.

Hell. Ned doesn't know what to make of the situation; certainly it doesn't sound like what he assumed, which was that Jacob knew what kind of person Roth is. Maybe he didn't. Maybe he was playing along, looking for an opportunity to kill Roth. But that hardly makes sense. Jacob wouldn't need to play a long game just to get a chance to stick a knife in him. If there's anything Ned is sure of, it's that the Fryes have easier methods of murder.

Either way, if he misunderstood Jacob on the train — if his bluster and anger were because he was in over his head with Roth, not in control of the situation after all...

 _You're looking for an excuse to see him in a better light_ , Ned tells himself. But all the same, he's left with an uncomfortable certainty that, again, something about his understanding of Jacob is off. He can't help remembering the way Jacob had held himself, uncertain, defensive. Not practiced, not like a capable liar. But then, he'd thought Jacob's nervousness was all part of the act. That he was playing Ned somehow.

Well, Ned has a powerful need to know the truth. Preferably before it's too late. Because maybe there's a chance the man he thought he knew really does exist. Funny, impatient, flirtatious Jacob. Irresponsible, and rough around the edges, but curiously kind. 

And while Ned doesn't give a damn what happens to Roth's attack dog, the idea of Jacob dying alone and betrayed makes him feel sick.

He's just praying that Roth is enough of a sadist to leave Jacob waiting for a late, late train.

He gets out of the cab at the station and hears a distant whistle. He breaks into a run and sprints up to the platform, which is nearly deserted at this time of night, occupied only by a few tired workers and vagrants without any other place to sleep. There's no sign of Jacob. But then, Roth wouldn't put him somewhere he was liable to be seen and freed.

Ned slips around an exhausted policeman, pinching a lantern resting near his foot, and drops down onto the tracks. Lantern under his arm, he jogs out of the station and toward the factory Millie had named. If he's right, and this was the direction Roth came...

The beam of the lantern swings wide over the tracks, making every shape in the dark look like the body of a man. God, he prays he's not walking straight into a trap meant for Miss Frye or Green, and if he is, prays that they show up and get both him and Jacob out of it. He doesn't dare slow down; now that he's here, he's terrified for himself as much as Jacob, and if he's too late, then he's too late, and he'll just have to run — 

And then he stumbles around a turn in the track and sees a slumped figure lying some ten meters away.

He bites back a shout and instead uses the breath to run flat out. He sees the man twitch and start to struggle at the sound of his footfalls. He's bound, gagged, blindfolded—and he must be securely tied to the tracks if he can't wrestle his way free. 

Ned drops to his knees in the gravel and plants the lantern at his side, yanking his knife out of his boot and immediately beginning to saw at the ropes on his legs. His bad wrist protests the grip he takes on the ropes, but there'll be time to regret that later. Jacob's lashed to the tracks by his torso, legs, and feet. He makes a muffled, frantic sound when he feels the ropes pull and squirms as best he can. "Hold still, Frye," Ned snaps. "It's Ned. I've got you, now just let me get you out of this—"

Jacob stops randomly twisting around, but his movements take on an urgency, an insistence. Ned cuts the ropes around his chest and starts to go for the ones around Jacob's feet, but then Jacob rolls to the side, exposing the hands under his back.

Ned sucks in a sharp breath, not only because Jacob's wrists are cuffed to the rails, but because there's blood running down his hands, the skin under the manacles torn open and raw. And he has no time to sympathize, because if he doesn't get those cuffs off, he's not going to watch Jacob bleed. He's going to watch him die.

He doesn't have his thieves tools, but he does keep a lockpick up his sleeve in case he needs to, for example, get himself out of the back of a police carriage without any help from meddling Assassins. "Just the work of a moment," he mutters, flicking the pick out of his sleeve and feeling in the dark until he finds the lock on the cuffs.

He hears another whistle. And this time he feels it, a whisper of a tremble in the rails under his knees.

Jacob hears it too, and the sound he makes is animalistic in its fear and rage. His hands jerk, a useless and agonizing attempt to pull free of the cuffs, and he begins trying to kick his way out of the ropes around his ankles.

"Frye!" Ned snatches the lockpick away before it can be damaged by Jacob's thrashing. "I said hold still, dammit, I'm trying to get these open! If this pick breaks, you're dead, understand me?" 

Jacob whimpers into the gag and he stops moving so much, but his hands are still yanking and twisting as the shivering vibration of the rails begins to build, and Ned wonders if he's even aware of what he's doing.

And what the hell is _he_ doing, yelling at Jacob when the man is half out of his mind already? He needs Jacob still so he can work the lock, but he doesn't think he can shout Jacob into submission, and he doesn't think he wants to try.

He needs a different tactic. And quick. 

Ned reaches up and slices through the blindfold, snatching it away from Jacob's eyes and leaning over him. 

For a second he's struck dumb. Jacob's eyes are red and his pupils blown wide, tear tracks down the sides of his face, bruises in the shape of what looks like fingers on his cheek. Ned has seen him angry, upset, but never half so wild. 

"Frye," he starts, with a sudden feeling of helplessness in the face of whatever did this to _Jacob Frye_. 

Then Jacob blinks up at him in the dull light of the lantern, and there's recognition in his eyes, or at least Ned hopes so. He tries, "Jacob. You know me. You trust me, don't you?" He sees Jacob's throat work, his chin jerk in what might be a nod. "One time I cracked a bank safe in ten minutes when everybody said it would keep a thief guessing all day. Ten minutes. This is nothing. You just lie still, and let me work." He finds himself rubbing Jacob's shoulder in a way he means to be reassuring, squeezing him gently. "All right? You just don't move and I'll get you out."

He thinks he sees Jacob nod again and doesn't have time to wait for more. He pushes Jacob over on his side so he can get at the lock mechanism and takes a second to be sure that Jacob's hands aren't moving much before he slides the pick in. The train sounds a lot closer than he'd like; it's probably in the station already, and with so few people about, it won't stop there long. No time to think about that, either. Jacob's holding as still as he can, and Ned's hands are steady, his head bent down almost touching the cuffs to listen as he teases the pick. 

The handcuffs are brutish in their design, but the lock is complex. Not that he should've expected anything else from Roth. Ned tries to shut out the voice in the back of his head calculating how long he has to pick the lock before he'll have to leap back and let the train pass over Jacob.

His pragmatism has always ruled him, but every so often he can't stand it.

The rumble of the train rattles in the bones of his leg, threatening to make his hands shake. Jacob is breathing hard, wheezing through the gag and Ned can hear him panicking again, can't blame him. "Jacob, listen." His voice comes out even, conversational. "I knew a tycoon who hired a couple of the best locksmiths in America to make a case for her jewels that no burglar could ever open without the proper key. I opened it." He talks over the voice in the back of his head, and it keeps him focused. And when he talks, Jacob's shaking hands curl into fists, tense and perfectly still. Ned, very calmly, probes with the lockpick. "One time, I had to break into this ridiculous wine cellar — "

 _Click_. 

The cuffs open. 

All at once the world resumes its usual speed, and when Ned looks up the oncoming train consumes his entire field of vision. He tries to yank Jacob off the rails — and realizes Jacob's feet are still bound to the other side of the tracks.

No time to cut the ropes. No time to pull Jacob free of them. Not a single precious second left except to jump aside and save himself.

He's frozen, like a statue, watching the train come. _Rookie mistake_ , he thinks, blankly. 

Then Jacob's thick arms grab him around the waist, and the world turns sideways. His back slams into the gravel and the air goes out of him, Jacob's body on top of his, pinning him in the dirt while he gasps for breath. Ned has half a second to register that they're both clear of the tracks before the train screams past them. The noise is like nothing he's ever experienced, the ground shuddering beneath him like it might rip open, Jacob's frantic breathing hot on his cheek. 

Then it passes.

Jacob slumps forward, burying his face in Ned's shoulder.

For a second Ned can't bear to move, in case he finds that not all of Jacob was free of the rails when the train rolled over them. Then he turns his head and sees the rope, cut by the train passing over it, stretched out with just enough give to allow Jacob to pull his whole body away from the tracks.

Ned lets out a slow, ragged sigh of relief. 

Jacob is motionless on top of him, maybe unconscious; Ned's good arm is trapped against his chest, but he reaches up painfully with his injured hand to rub at Jacob's shoulder. "Frye?" Jacob is freezing, he can feel that now, deathly cold seeping from his body to Ned's where they're pressed together. 

"Frye. Up, _now_."

Jacob comes to with a start. He fumbles up on his hands and knees, breathing hard through his nose like a bull. He tries to tear the gag out of his mouth, but it's knotted behind his skull. Ned watches him fumble at the cloth with numb, clumsy fingers for a moment before he sits up and reaches out, batting Jacob's hands away. "Let me." But when he tries to take a tight grip with his left hand, his wrist spasms in protest. After a few moments, he gives up, grabs his knife, and cuts the gag away.

Jacob twists away from him to spit out another balled-up cloth. He scrambles off Ned, making it a few meters before he doubles over and retches. He stays curled over even after he's stopped heaving, gulping in loud, sobbing breaths. Ned can see his shoulders shaking, his head bowed toward the ground, his arms braced either side of his head. His fists are clenched tight, his forearms grinding into the gravel as he fights to breathe.

Ned feels the need to intervene, seeing as he's rubbing the wounds on his wrists into the dirt. " _Frye._ "

Jacob tenses at the sound of his name. He inhales a few times, shaky but measured, and then scrubs his sleeve over his eyes. 

"Wynert," he says. "Fancy meeting you here." It comes out strange, like he's trying to sound jaunty even though his voice is strangled, dry, and thick with tears. "How — how did you —"

Ned picks himself up gingerly, cradling his bad arm to his chest. "I was keeping an eye on Roth," he says. "Heard you were in trouble." He makes his way to Jacob and crouches down beside him, dropping a hand onto Jacob's shoulder. Jacob flinches and rubs his eyes harder. He smells like smoke, blood, and bile. Can't fault the man for that, though.

Ned is feeling remarkably calm, but it's the kind of calm that overtakes him instead of panic at the worst of times. The both of them just nearly died, and he won't really know it until he's three whiskeys deep a day later. For now, he's numb.

"Can you walk, Frye?"

Jacob takes a long time answering. Nods, finally, instead of speaking. He stands, keeping his back to Ned, and there's a distinct tremble in his right leg when he puts his weight on it.

"Something wrong with your leg?"

"There's a bullet in it," Jacob says, with a wretched note of humor.

"Christ — so you mean _no_ , you can't walk."

"I can." He takes a step as if to prove it, and to his credit, he doesn't fall over. But his leg is shaking so badly Ned can see it.

"Don't argue with me," Ned says wearily. Between the two of them, they've got few unblemished limbs. Ned settles for pulling one of Jacob's arms around his shoulders, which is laughably unhelpful considering their height difference — but at least if Jacob falls, Ned can slow him on his way to the ground. "Come on. Sooner we get you indoors, the better."

"I thought we weren't working together anymore," Jacob says, his fingers curling around Ned's shoulder and gripping tight. He lets Ned lead him, limping.

Ned clears his throat. "This isn't work." It sounds like a flimsy comeback, even to his own ears. "This is just me pulling your ass out of the fire, Frye." 

-

No matter how hard he tries, Jacob can't shake the feeling that he's dreaming.

Ned gets him into a carriage, and snaps instructions to the driver. He sits across from Jacob, studying him with dark eyes as the carriage lurches into motion. Jacob doesn't understand why he's here. Why he came. _If_ he came, or if this is a dream he spiraled into to escape the nightmare.

He knows he needs to be alert. Ned is tense; Jacob watches him reach for the pistol on his hip half a dozen times, as if to reassure himself that it's still there.

There should be adrenaline racing through his blood. He should be ready to fight. Instead, he feels heavy and sluggish, unable to summon any of his usual energy. But the more he tries to focus, the more pain he's in — he aches everywhere, sharper pain in his wrists and leg. His lungs are sore from the smoke. His throat is sore from screaming. It's easier to drift.

He doesn't realize he's starting to doze off until Ned says, curtly, "Frye. I need you to stay awake."

Jacob blinks and lifts his head. He's still in the carriage. Not on the train tracks. 

"What for?" he asks, with an attempted smile.

Ned is watching him, unreadable. "What the hell did he do to you?"

Jacob manages to laugh, although it comes out as more of a cough. Ned doesn't appear to appreciate his answer.

"What do you know about Roth?" he murmurs, remembering when Ned had asked him the same thing.

"Enough to be concerned."

"What does that mean?" 

"Means I don't know _what_ to expect from him."

Jacob considers that, staring absently at Ned's blank face and anxious jaw. _Do you know he kisses boys?_

He's so exhausted. It would frighten him, if he weren't so tired, how hard it is to keep his eyes open.

An indeterminate amount of time later, the carriage stops and lets them off on a quiet street he doesn't recognize. Ned pays the driver and waits until he's driven off before guiding Jacob down the block. "Sorry," he mutters. "Didn't want to bring anyone right to my door."

"I can walk," Jacob repeats, gritting his teeth.

"Boss!"

Jacob startles as a gangly young man melts out of the shadows in a nearby alley and approaches them, but Ned doesn't appear alarmed. "Were we followed?" he asks.

The boy shakes his head. "I didn't see anyone." His voice is high, soft, and Jacob takes a second look at him.

"Good," Ned says. "Take his other arm."

Ned's henchling is stronger than he is, and between the two of them, they take most of the weight off Jacob's injured leg as they haul him to the door of an inconspicuous house and bring him inside. They deposit him in a soft chair surrounded by bookshelves, and Jacob sinks back into it gratefully.

"Mill," Ned says, clipped. "Joshua should be down at the pub by this hour. Get him to find you a set of clean clothes that'll fit Mr. Frye — and if he gives you any trouble, remind him that he said he owes Ned Wynert the shirt off his back. His words."

"Got it, boss."

Jacob watches the boy scramble out the door.

Ned disappears into the next room and returns with several blankets, which he deposits on top of Jacob. "Wrap yourself in those," he instructs. "I'll get a fire going."

He doesn't wait for Jacob to respond before turning away, lighting a fire in the hearth nearby and then going into another room, where Jacob hears water running.

Jacob pulls the blankets tightly around his body until he feels like he's wrapped up in a cocoon, and then lets his head fall against the back of the chair.

-

"Frye." Someone's shaking him by the shoulder. "Frye!"

Jacob blinks his eyes open, head lolling against the back of the chair for a moment before he slowly lifts it. Ned is leaning over him, holding a steaming mug that smells of chamomile.

"Drink this," he commands, pushing the tea into Jacob's hands. "And stretch your leg out, let me take a look."

Jacob extends his leg, wincing, and Ned crouches down to cut the leg of his trousers away from the bullet wound. Jacob stares at the ceiling again, cringing when Ned's fingers brush across his skin near the wound.

"Well, aren't you a liar," Ned says.

"What?"

"There's no bullet in your leg. But it's a nasty graze." Ned is quiet for a moment. "Seems like it bled less than it should have."

"My sister and I heal quickly," Jacob says, detachedly.

"Whatever you Assassins are made of," Ned says, "I'm fairly sure it isn't the usual human stock."

Jacob makes a noncommittal sound.

"I still think it calls for stitches, and it needs cleaning," Ned says. He straightens up. "It'll hurt."

"Do it," Jacob says. He's distracted by a painful tingling in his hands and face now that the blankets and the nearby fire are starting to warm them. He hadn't realized he was quite so cold. Ned goes away again and returns with what seems like an extraordinarily comprehensive amount of medical supplies. "You never told me you were a physician, Wynert."

"I hate doctors," Ned says lightly. "So I do my best not to need them."

Jacob still feels mostly numb; but when Ned starts to clean the bullet wound, the sensation comes back, searing pain that sets his teeth on edge and seems to spread throughout his leg. "Sorry," Ned murmurs, as he stiffens. "I can give you some whiskey, if you like."

"Just — do it quickly." Jacob squeezes his eyes shut. The pain is something to focus on, at least. It brings him back to the present, and convinces him — as nothing else quite has — that this is probably real.

He's thoroughly sick of crying, but a few tears squeeze their way out of his eyes while Ned's stitching the wound closed, and he wipes them away angrily. He hates the hitch in his breathing that gives him away, the way Ned pauses in concern for a moment. But, mercifully, he doesn't ask Jacob if he's all right.

"Done," Ned says briskly. "Show me your wrists."

Jacob puts down his tea and gives Ned his hands, one at a time. He hadn't really looked at his wrists before now, but in the light of the house they 're awfully mangled. Ned has hot water, clean cloths, and fine tweezers that he uses to pinch the gravel out of the wounds. The water is pink by the time he's finished, winding bandages around Jacob's wrists.

He glances at Jacob, catching his eye for a moment. "Warming up?"

"Yes," Jacob says. He starting to think that his feeling numb isn't only from the cold. He thinks to add, "Thank you. I owe you."

Ned shakes his head faintly. "You're running up a tab," he says. "But that's how I prefer it."

There's a knock at the door, and Ned gets up to answer it. "Thanks," Jacob hears him say. "I'll see to him. You keep watch on Roth. And be careful."

Jacob leans out of the chair and sees the young man — "Mill" — nod before Ned closes the door. Ned has a bundle of clothing in his arms when he returns.

"Is he like you?" Jacob asks. "Your… subordinate."

Jacob's known about Ned's peculiar situation since not long after they met, but they've never discussed it beyond a quick clarification. Ned pauses, looking faintly startled. "No," he says. "She's not. Just likes to avoid unwanted attention." He places the stack of clothes on a side table next to the chair. "Put these on. The trousers at least. And the socks."

He takes the bowl of muddied water away and Jacob slowly stirs himself to obey, keeping a blanket wrapped around himself as he struggles out of his ragged trousers and into the new ones. They're plain, and a bit loose, but serviceable. The socks are thick wool and warm on his freezing toes.

Ned comes back with another bowl of hot water and a fresh washcloth. "Any other wounds I should know about?"

"I don't remember getting any."

"Good." Ned gathers away his medical supplies, then straightens up and leans over Jacob. He dips the cloth in the water and bends down, rubbing it across Jacob's cheek. It comes away dark with soot and grime.

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to remove a layer of dirt," Ned says. He sobers slightly. "If I were in your position, I'd want to feel clean, at least."

Jacob swallows, frowning. "You don't have to do that for me."

"I didn't bandage your wrists so you could get the gauze wet," Ned retorts. "Besides, your sister's pretty and I want her to think I took good care of you."

"Stay away from Evie — " Jacob stops. "What does Evie have to do with this?"

Ned gives him an odd look. "I figured we'd be getting you back to her as soon as possible. This place is safe for the moment, but I can't exactly fortify it if Roth comes after you."

"No." His stomach lurches. "I need to deal with Roth. Alone. Evie isn't involved."

Ned puts the cloth down. "Are you serious?" Jacob prickles at the disbelief in his voice. "He almost killed you tonight and you think you're in any fit shape to deal with him yourself?"

"He needed an army," Jacob snaps. "And he won't catch me by surprise next time. It'll just be me and Roth."

"You can barely walk — "

"I'll be fine — "

" — And why the hell don't you want your sister involved?"

"That's none of your business."

Ned flushes. "I just saved your damn life!"

"I didn't ask you to!" He feels ridiculous as soon as the words are out of his mouth, snarled as if they were a proper retort. Ned is staring at him, eyes hard. "Roth is mine," Jacob says, between gritted teeth. "He's my responsibility."

Ned is silent for a moment, and when he speaks, Jacob knows he's chosen his words carefully. "Whose responsibility do you think he'll be after he kills you?"

Jacob shoves himself out of the chair and tries to go for the door. But several things go wrong at once. For one thing, he's still mostly tangled in several blankets. And when he puts weight on his injured leg, he stumbles, catching himself on the side table but reopening a wound on his wrist in the process. 

He stares at his arm as blood seeps through the gauze and realizes he's still only wearing socks on his feet.

"If you run out of here," Ned says, "I'm going straight to find your sister."

Jacob squeezes his hands into fists and feels tears prick the corners of his eyes again. " _Don't_."

"What do you expect me to do?" Ned snaps, his voice rising. "You think I don't want Roth dead? You think he won't come for me after he's done with you?"

Roth's words float back into his mind. _I'll write an invitation for Wynert_. Jacob shudders. 

"I know he will," he says. "That's why I'm going to kill him first."

"Fine, _fine_ , but there's no damn reason to go alone."

"Not Evie," Jacob bites out. "She can't be anywhere near him."

Because he knows what Roth will do if he sees the chance. Even if Jacob kills him. What he'll say to Evie.

Ned lets out a slow breath. "Frye," he says. "Does this have anything to do with the fact that Millie saw Roth kiss you?"

Jacob could swear he feels his heart stop for a second. His whole body stiffens, and he knows that's answer enough.

"Sit down," Ned says, tired and strangely gentle.

Not knowing what else to do, Jacob slumps back into the chair.

Ned dips the washcloth back into the water. He reaches over and scrubs it across Jacob's cheek. "Let me get this straight," he says quietly. "You really think your sister would disown you because someone like Roth tried to take advantage?"

"No," Jacob says. "I think she'd do it if she knew he wasn't taking advantage."

Ned goes silent as he squeezes the cloth out into the water. When Jacob glances at him, he doesn't meet his eyes. "Are we talking riddles now?"

Jacob's throat feels clammy, and he struggles to find words. "We're — the same. Me and Roth. That's why I have to kill him. And it doesn't matter if he kills me."

He's hoping for Ned's understanding, at least. That this will make Ned let him go. When Ned doesn't respond at all, his heart sinks even lower.

"I don't care if you regret saving me," he says, although it's a lie; he still wishes desperately that he could go back and stop Ned from hating him. "Just don't tell Evie. Please."

Ned finally stirs, his shoulders slumping. "Why should I regret that, Frye?"

"Do you want me to spell it out?" Jacob spits, incredulous even though his chest feels like it's being squeezed in a vise. "Because you didn't bargain for a —"

The word gets stuck in his throat and Ned's jaw tightens. "Whatever you're about to call yourself, do us both a favor and don't."

"It's _true._ "

"I didn't say it wasn't." Ned puts the washcloth down, folding his arms over his chest. "What the hell makes you think I'd be one to judge?"

Jacob stares at him, wondering if Ned thinks he's comparing them. "It's not the same."

"Having the same inclinations doesn't make you like Roth." Ned's voice is curt. "Millie said you turned on him."

"He was going to murder a factory full of children —"

"And I suppose your inclinations made you agree with him."

" _No_. Of course not —"

"So you've noticed there are worse sins in the world than who you lie with."

Jacob doesn't have the words to explain that he still _knows_ it's wrong. He's known from the moment Roth first touched him that it was repulsive, that there was something twisted in him that made him want Roth. That it never stopped hurting. That even now he feels sick. "You don't understand."

Ned gets up, goes away to warm his hands by the fire.

His voice is low when he answers, "Don't I?"

Jacob stares at his back. "You — what?"

"I like one sort as well as the other, Frye, and no matter how you figure it, that makes me some kind of queer."

Jacob is so stunned he forgets to flinch at the word. "You?"

"Do I sound like I'm lying?"

"No — I just —"

Because he and Roth _are_ alike. Both violent. Both frustrated by structure, by oppression. Both chaotic. Since they met Roth has only amplified the ways he and Evie have always been different, took him spiraling into the things he's always wanted but known were dangerous.

But Ned isn't anything like him. Restrained, careful, clever, bookish — he's more like Evie, but even Evie wouldn't hesitate over spilling blood. And even Evie doesn't have that kind of self-control, the command of himself that makes every real smile Jacob manages to bring to his face a victory.

 _Some kind of queer_. The words turn over and over and over in his head.

"But how do you —" He doesn't know how to ask what he needs to ask. "How do you live with it?"

"Easily enough."

"But it hurts so much." There's a jagged sliver of hope in his chest that Ned knows something he doesn't. "When I was with Roth, it was always — it was wrong. It was wrong for us to be together. I could feel it."

Ned looks over his shoulder and studies Jacob for a moment. "Did you ever consider blaming him for that?"

"For what?"

"Hurting you."

"He didn't —"

Ned raises his eyebrows. Jacob fumbles for words, staring at the bandages on his wrists and trying to think of a way to explain that this is different. "I didn't want him to do this," he says. "But there were other things."

"Think on this. Whatever it was you wanted from him, you could get it from someone else." Ned turns, leaning against the mantelpiece. "Maybe you'd find it was different without him. Maybe not. Either way, your sister would miss you."

The thought of Evie makes guilt roll over him again. "Roth will tell her if I don't kill him."

"So kill him. Just don't kill yourself."

Jacob looks up and meets his eyes across the room. Ned is watching him, slim and dark against the glow of the fireplace, his arms still crossed tight over his chest. "Why are you helping me?"

Ned sighs, tilting his head back. "Because," he says. "It occurred to me that a country boy from Crawley might not know what I do about Maxwell Roth. Might not see a knife in the back coming. And that I might've owed you a warning." 

"I wouldn't have listened."

"Either way, I wish I'd tried." He eyes Jacob over his glasses. "Now. Are you going to let me wash your face?"

Jacob laughs weakly. "Be my guest." Now that some of the grime has been scrubbed off, he can feel the rest of it clinging to his skin.

And Ned was right. He does want to feel clean.

Ned comes back over, his posture loosening as he leans a hip against the chair and picks up the washcloth. The water has cooled, but Jacob doesn't complain. He turns his chin toward Ned and closes his eyes as Ned runs the cloth over his brow, gentle on the bruises.

"Ned?"

"Yes?"

"I meant what I said." Jacob cracks open one eye, blinking away the water caught in his eyelashes. "Stay away from my sister."

Ned snorts. And there's a real smile for him. 

Jacob watches the corners of Ned's mouth curl up and finally feels a touch of warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the delay in getting this chapter up! I'll hopefully be able to put out the rest on a weekly basis, but I'm wrestling with some big work deadlines at the moment, so it's possible I'll need to slow down a bit. <3 THANK YOU and I hope you enjoyed this chapter despite the delay!
> 
> also, I'm doing a WIP meme on my tumblr for punch drunk, so if you're interested in seeing POV swaps, etc., [here's the tag](http://fakeandroid.tumblr.com/tagged/punch-drunk) I'm using for it! (... & note that my shitty theme doesn't show readmores so you have to click on the post title to see everything, I'm sorry :'D)


	7. nothing but a joke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why don't you focus on keeping yourself in one piece, and thank me when it's over."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW it's good to be back!! should be chapters every 1-2 weeks from here on out, folks. <3 thank you for your patience!!

Of all the places Ned expected to find himself, cleaning the dirt from behind Jacob Frye's ears was not one of them.

The thing is, it helps Jacob settle. He lapses into an exhausted silence while Ned cleans the dirt, blood, and soot from his face — still uneasy, and God knows Ned can't fault him for being on edge, but at least calmer. And he keeps his eyes closed. Ned doesn't go out of his way to be soothing, but through no fault of his own, Jacob seems to trust him. Ned finds that mystifying and just this side of intoxicating, the way Jacob relaxes completely into his hands. 

So when his face is clean, Ned gets another bowl of hot water and offers to wash his hair.

Jacob blinks at him, owlish and haggard. "Would you mind?" he asks.

"I'd rather wash it than keep smelling it," Ned says, and Jacob laughs, looking a little chagrined. "You're taking the bed, and I don't want to know what my pillowcase would look like if I let you sleep on it now."

Jacob fidgets as Ned arranges the bowl beside his chair along with a few more washrags to catch the drips. "You're not insisting on us going back to the train, then."

"I imagine we're safe here for the moment," Ned says. Truth is, he doubts he could force Jacob to return to the train and talk to his sister even if it's the right thing to do. "Lean your head over."

Jacob follows his urging and his eyes fall closed as Ned combs his hair through the water. His hair really is filthy, like someone ground his head into the dirt. Which might not be far off. It's a little awkward to work the tangles out with one hand, but Ned manages, trying not to be distracted by the way the tension eases out of Jacob's brow as Ned rubs his fingers gently along his scalp.

He pulls Jacob's hair away from the back of his neck, letting it hang wetly over the bowl and drip into the water. And that's when he notices the bruises. All over where Jacob's neck meets his back, deeper and uglier over the ridges of his spine. Ned brushes his fingers over them without thinking, and Jacob flinches.

"Someone step on you?" Ned asks.

"Roth's boys," Jacob mumbles.

Ned's getting soft, he knows it, because he knows what kind of a man Jacob is. Knows that other people need protecting from him, not the other way around — and looking at those bruises still makes him angry and sick. Worse is the idea that if he kept looking, he'd find more, because he's sure Roth left plenty.

It's one thing to make a living in a way that's strictly less than legal. Most of Ned's favorite people do. Roth is something else, something that raises the hair on the back of his neck. Cruel and vicious don't seem to capture it. 

Rather than voice any of those thoughts, he dips a cloth in the warm water and runs it over the back of Jacob's neck, watching his shoulders ease. He'll be all right, Ned tells himself. 

And there's no purpose to him getting angry at Roth when he still plans to avoid the man for the rest of his natural life.

The water is practically muddy by the time Jacob's hair is passably clean, and Ned just keeps finding more dirt. He can't help laughing when he rubs the cloth behind Jacob's ears and finds dirt there, too — and Jacob chuckles, tilting his head like a dog enjoying the attention. "No one's _washed_ me since I was a boy," he says.

"Your mother?"

"Grandmother. Our mother died giving birth."

"And your father?"

"Not the nurturing type," Jacob says, his tone a bit clipped. "And dead too, now that you mention it."

Ned can tell a sore spot when he's hit one, so he navigates away. "This Assassin business, is that a — I don't know what you'd call it. A family tradition?"

That gets Jacob to laugh again. "That's close enough. We've been training since we were small." It doesn't escape Ned that it's always _we_ , not _I_. Jacob pauses, his head pressing against Ned's palm. "What about you? Your family. Is there a family tradition of robbing trains and stealing jewels?"

Ned doesn't mean to stiffen, but he does, and Jacob glances up at him. "Sorry," Jacob says. "I noticed you didn't like it when I asked about New York."

"Doesn't matter," Ned says, because a decade of saying so has made it nearly true. "I left all that behind me."

"Do you miss it?"

"No point in missing something you can't get back."

"Was it worth it, then?"

For a moment Ned starts to bristle at the question, and the answer on his lips is, _What the hell do you think? I'm here, aren't?_ But there's a tension in Jacob's asking that, on reflection, probably doesn't have much to do with Ned at all.

"Are you asking me if being honest might be worth losing your sister?"

Jacob's hands knot together in his lap. "No. It's _not_ worth that."

"Well, you'd know better than me." Ned supposes that his own story isn't much of a comfort when it comes to keeping family. "I never had a twin. Anyway, I knew better than to be honest about who I was. I just left." It's more than he said to anyone on the subject in a long time, and it feels like running his fingers through a candle flame, just quick enough to avoid being burned. "But unless you feel like setting up in New York, maybe don't follow my example."

There's not much to say after that. Ned towels the water out of Jacob's hair, mindful that he's still abnormally cold, although the fire crackling nearby and the hot tea and blankets seem to have gotten him out of danger. "You ought to rest," he says, quickly smoothing Jacob's hair out of his face. "Might as well before Roth notices you got out of his trap. Millie and I will keep watch, and come tomorrow, we can figure out what to do."

He's putting off his own nerves as much as Jacob's, delaying the moment when he has to think about what a stupid idea it was to snatch him out from under Roth's nose.

Jacob nods slowly. "I'm sorry for dragging you into this."

Ned sighs. What's done is done, he thinks; he's never been much one for dwelling on what could've been, least of all when the other option is I could've left you to die. "Why don't you focus on keeping yourself in one piece, and thank me when it's over."

He leads Jacob upstairs to the smaller room where he keeps his bed, and waves Jacob into it while he pulls a chair up beside the window. He knows he won't sleep much anyway; might as well keep his eyes open.

"Thank you," Jacob says, quietly, after he's done shifting around in the bed and getting comfortable with his various injuries.

Ned finds it easier not to answer.

He dozes off sometime after midnight, his pistol resting in his lap.

-

He jerks awake to someone banging on the window.

His eyes snap open, his fingers wrapping automatically around the grip of his pistol. But it's only Millie, peering in through the window. Ned lurches stiffly to his feet, groaning when his sore limbs and bruised back protest the movement. It's early, but later than he meant to sleep. He yanks the window open and Millie sticks her head inside. "Where's Frye?" she asks.

"What do you mean, where's —" Ned twists around midsentence and takes in the sight of the empty bed, sheets and blankets thrown haphazardly over to one side. "Shit."

He gives Millie a hand in through the window and sprints downstairs, hoping he'll find Jacob just curled up in front of the fire or scavenging in his kitchen. No such luck. The front door and the windows are barred just as they were, but a backdoor leading to the alley is very slightly ajar. Ned opens it and stares down the alley, hoping against hope to see some sign of Jacob. Nothing, of course.

He rounds on Millie. "You didn't see him leave?"

She shakes her head. "I just came to see if I could have a cup of tea for my watch, boss — it's bloody cold on your roof." And she looks exhausted, at that. It's past time Ned sent her home to rest in exchange for a more wakeful sentry.

But there's the more pressing matter of Jacob. Ned can only imagine he left of his own volition, since if any of Roth's men had come to kidnap him, they wouldn't have left Ned alive. He doesn't doubt that Jacob's capable of sneaking past Millie. What does surprise him is that Jacob felt well enough. And that's a bad sign in itself, since if he's feeling well, he probably thinks he's ready to do something stupid, like going to kill Roth.

Well, Ned did threaten to tell his sister. Now that seems like the only option.

"Mill, get a couple of the boys and stake out the Alhambra. If you see Frye, don't get in his way, but tell him his sister is coming. And tell him Ned says that if family is worth dying for, it's got to be worth living for, too." He grabs his hat and coat. "I'm going to find Miss Frye."

Millie nods and ducks out through the front door. Ned goes out the back, toward the nearest railway station; he doesn't know where the Fryes' train will be stopping next, but with luck he can catch Evie or Green on its next circuit. 

The morning air is brisk and cold and sharpens his mind. Jacob has to know that Ned won't hesitate to tell Evie — so if he's decided to go after Roth, he's probably trying to finish it as quickly as possible. To remove all possibility of Roth telling Evie about their relationship. 

That'll make Jacob reckless, desperate. With any luck, he'll have the element of surprise on Roth, but on the other hand, Roth must've anticipated some kind of retribution. Just not from Jacob himself.

Either way, if Jacob's gone directly after Roth, he'll be headed for the Alhambra, and Ned can only hope he'll have the sense to case the joint before he rushes in. Maybe that might give Evie long enough to reach him. 

_Maybe this, maybe that._ Too many unknowns. It makes Ned nervous, jittery with all the factors he can't control, the possibility that he's running in the wrong direction, and that if he is —

Well, maybe Jacob dies.

That's a fact, but it's one that fills him with sharp fear, and his mind skirts away from it. He doesn't want to think about it. Not twice in as many days.

He rounds a corner and nearly walks straight into a six-foot man in Blighter red.

Ned's heart jumps into his throat, but he doesn't freeze. He stumbles a bit, tips his hat. He drops his eyes, and walks past the man, mumbling, "Pardon me."

The Blighter seizes him by the arm and pulls him to a stop. 

Ned glances up at him, prepared to say whatever he needs to say in order to be let go. And that's when he realizes that the man doesn't look the least bit surprised to see him. 

Next moment, there's the muzzle of a gun pressed to the back of his head. 

Ned goes still as death. He slowly turns his head just far enough to see that there are three more Blighters behind him. And another man, this one in a plaid suit with a blank, dour face.

Ned breathes out slowly, steadying himself against the trickle of cold fear that runs down the back of his neck. He raises his hands into the air, palms out.

"Mr. Wynert?" the man in the plaid suit asks, idly aiming a derringer at Ned's stomach. Ned can see by the way the Blighters spread out around him that this man is the ringleader.

"That's me," Ned says, wiggling his fingers to make sure everyone is aware that he's not holding a weapon, not presenting any threat. Ned doesn't recognize the ringleader, which gives him a flicker of hope that he's just fallen afoul of some ordinary gangsters. Maybe this is one of Bloody Nora's; she and Ned have an informal truce. "Can I help you, gentlemen? I'm sure there's no need for any of us to be armed."

"I'm glad to hear it, sir," Plaid Suit says, blandly. "Mr. Roth would prefer you unharmed."

Well. 

Optimism is the last resort of a dead man. Ned forces himself to smile, although inside he's tensing, tight as a spring. He tries not to remember the two men who were killed the last time the Blighters came after him, but the memory of blood spreading across the carriage floor is vivid in his mind. 

Jacob came for him then. But where the hell is he now?

Ned finds his voice. "That's kind of him. My first encounter with you boys didn't end so well."

"Regrettable, sir," Plaid Suit says.

Plaid Suit stands back while one of the other men moves in, grabs Ned's raised hands, and twists them behind his back. It hurts, his injured wrist seizing as the man binds it to the other with thick rope. Ned breathes hard, rigid, and does his best not to jerk away; he doesn't want to find out whether the man holding a gun to his head has an itchy trigger finger, whether Roth really only _prefers_ him alive.

Once his hands are bound, Plaid Suit approaches him and reaches out, plucking Ned's glasses from his nose.

"Again?" Ned asks, with a jagged laugh. "I've only got so many pairs —"

And then there's black cloth wrapped over his eyes, shutting out the light, and Ned sees the logic of it. 

-

The Blighters who've abducted him are unusually quiet and stiff, no chatter in the carriage as they drive him. Ned expected more taunts, more crude jokes. The silence is unnerving. It makes him feel watched, so he tests the ropes around his wrists with small, subtle movements. They're tied dangerously tight, no give at all, and thick enough that even cutting through them would take longer than he'd like — especially considering that his knife is all the way in his boot.

His gun is gone, but Ned's just glad that it's the only thing the Blighters discovered when they were patting him down.

He still has a lockpick up his sleeve. But that's more useful against police handcuffs than sturdy ropes and a carriage full of armed men.

He clears his throat, grateful that he wasn't gagged; that leaves him access to his last weapon. He tilts his shoulders back, cocking his head at a confident angle. "You, in the plaid. What's your name?"

"Lewis, sir," is the reply.

"Lewis. I have a question." Ned's talking as much for the benefit of the henchmen surrounding them as he is for Lewis, aware that in the silent carriage, they have nothing to do but listen to him. "Don't mean to put too fine a point on it, but you — all of you, really — ought to know that the Rooks pay better than anything Roth ever offered me. In fact, _I_ pay better." He has no idea if it's true or not, but then again, he suspects that Roth maintains loyalty more with fear than reward.

"You should have greater concerns than money, Mr. Wynert," Lewis replies calmly.

Well, he's right. Ned smiles tightly. "Maybe so. But it does make me wonder, why work for him? And don't tell me it's his personality."

No one laughs. Tough crowd. 

There's no change in the texture of Lewis's voice, and his response is measured almost as if rehearsed: "Because Mr. Roth has a habit of coming out on top, and that is more valuable than money."

"What about the Fryes?" Ned asks. "The Rooks have already taken half of Roth's territory from him. They're dismantling your gang piece by piece. You don't think they're more than capable of taking the rest?" He has to believe it. "And, for that matter, capable of protecting anyone who does side with them?"

"I'm afraid today has already demonstrated how capable Mr. Frye is of protecting his associates," Lewis says. 

"It hasn't _demonstrated_ anything yet," Ned snaps. "I'm still alive."

"And so you will be, until Mr. Roth decides that he prefers otherwise," Lewis replies. "Be careful what you say in his company, Mr. Wynert, and be especially careful what you say about Mr. Frye. You may live longer that way."

Ned can't tell if the man is mocking him or, worse, sincerely trying to give him advice. 

He's scared that he hears pity in Lewis's voice.

"I think it's time we put Mr. Wynert to sleep," Lewis says, and someone claps a rag over his mouth.

The cloth tastes chemical and sweet — _chloroform_. Ned jerks his head back, fear suddenly flooding him from the bottom of his stomach. Getting tied up is one thing; getting his senses stolen away from him is terrifying to a different degree. But whichever one of the Blighters is responsible for drugging him pins him against the seat with a heavy forearm, a large hand holding the rag against his nose and mouth so he is no option except to breathe it in.

He holds his breath to stave off unconsciousness a little longer, but with every delayed inhale his head grows foggier and heavier, until he feels like he's drifting and doesn't remember what he was supposed to hold his breath for.

Inside the blindfold, everything is dark anyway, so he barely notices when he falls asleep.

-

But he notices waking up.

For one thing, he feels like shit. The first thing he notices is his head pounding like the worst hangover of his life; the pain leaks into his dreamless sleep, red and throbbing, and finally drags him back to reality. His stomach is churning, his wrist feels like one long bruise, and the world feels like it's slowly tipping and turning around him. 

He's sitting in a chair that feels like it's on the deck of a ship being tossed by the waves, his neck stiff, and for a moment he wonders if he ever left his chair by the window. He smells liquor. Could be it was all a miserable dream. He doesn't remember drinking, but maybe…

Ned opens his eyes and yelps.

There's a man leaning over him, grinning like a skull. A white face, bisected by a ropy scar, with bloodshot eyes and hair peeling free of the grease that slicks it back. Ned sucks in a sharp, frightened breath, and the man gives a harsh laugh that smells like licorice and liquor.

"Welcome back, Mr. Wynert."

There's something strangely whimsical about that voice, despite the fact that it comes out as a growl. It reminds Ned of a magician hawking outside his circus tent, trying to entice the passersby inside.

It takes Ned a moment to find his voice; his tongue feels thick and dry in his mouth, and his heart is thumping so hard it nauseates him. 

"Roth?"

"Ah! Good — so you do know me." Roth leans away, far enough for him to become blurry, for which Ned is grateful. It's not the time or place to question Jacob's taste in men, but in the back of his mind, Ned is faintly horrified. "You'll have to forgive my disturbing your sleep. I'm terribly busy getting things ready for the show tonight, but I was _most desirous_ of meeting you face-to-face."

"Pleasure's all mine," Ned manages.

Roth chuckles, pacing away from him, and Ned scans what little there is to see of his surroundings. It's a plain wooden room, dully lit by gaslight, piles of what might be cloth or garments stacked in one corner and a table at one end. Roth pours himself a glass of green liquid.

Absinthe. Explains the smell.

Ned tests the ropes around his wrists and finds them looser than before, probably because whoever tied him to this chair was dealing with a limp, drugged body and didn't bother with exceptional knots. Their mistake. Even with his fingers tingling and his wrist aching, he's almost sure he can get a hand free. The bigger issue is the rope around his knees, lashing him to the seat of the chair.

Now if only his head didn't feel like it was full of cotton.

Roth drags a chair over in front of him and sinks into it. He studies Ned while he drinks. "I confess I'm somewhat disappointed," he says, with a chuckle as though the joke is between them. "I expected someone taller. And, well, someone _more_."

"I'm sorry?" Ned asks, gritting his teeth.

"I rather romanticized you, I suppose," Roth says. "The idea of having a rival excited me. Someone worthy of his interest. Someone even I would feel a pang upon seeing in the throes of death. But look at you." Roth leans closer, and the smell of liquor washes over Ned, the bitter, wild gleam in Roth's eyes all too clear. "A mouse in an ill-fitting suit. It's a wonder no one stepped on you sooner."

Ned doesn't rise to the bait. _Worthy of his interest._ He can taste the suspicion in those words, the implication. "I think you might have a misunderstanding of the relationship between Mr. Frye and I," he says evenly. "He's just a business partner. Hell, we don't even work together anymore —"

Roth laughs. "Then your heroics at St. Pancras must have been a personal favor to him." At Ned's silence, he smirks. "Did you think I was foolish enough not to leave someone behind to ensure his demise? I admit, I was anticipating more the possibility that he might free himself. I didn't expect _you_." He leans closer. "I expected his interest to be entirely one-sided."

"There's no interest, Roth. I just wouldn't leave a man to die." Ned bites out the words. "But I wouldn't die for him, either. Take my meaning?"

Roth looks pleased. "You mean you'd be willing to make a deal to save yourself."

"Course I would."

"Even if it meant betraying Jacob."

"Even better," Ned says. "He's the one who got me into this mess. No matter what you think, I wouldn't do a damn thing for Frye if it meant risking my own neck."

And God, he wishes that were true.

Roth drains the last of his absinthe and drops the glass onto the floor, where it rolls beneath his chair. He braces his arms on his knees, leaning forward and fixing Ned with an amused and piercing look. " _Harsh_ words from a man who swept in to rescue him last night."

"Good partners are hard to come by. Especially those as... talented as the Fryes." Ned watches him closely, working his fingers over the rope around his injured wrist and willing himself not to give away a flicker of discomfort. "You know that. Can't fault me for wanting him to owe me a favor."

"Ah, certainly not." Roth grins, showing his teeth. "If only we had been partners before now, Wynert. If you had answered my summons instead of running to Frye with your tail between your legs and attempting to turn him against me…"

"If I'd have answered your summons, you would've killed me," Ned says, as jovially as he can.

" _Perhaps_ , my friend, perhaps, but I would be more inclined to trust you." Roth chuckles, rising to his feet. "But don't fret. I have plans for you. An effective trap does need bait, after all."

"Frye won't fall for that." Ned says it as if he doesn't believe the exact opposite. "We're in your theater, right? He'll know you're here, and he'll know you're waiting for him."

"Of course he will. I issued him a personal invitation last night. Of course, I had _hoped_ he wouldn't be attending." Roth looks down at him, his eyes cold in spite of the smile curling across his mouth. "He would have been mine. I won't forgive you for that."

"He would've been _dead_ ," Ned snaps, unsure of why he's bothering to argue the distinction with a madman.

Roth just laughs and turns from him again. "There's more than one way to keep someone," he says. "And now, much as I've enjoyed our chat, I think it's time you went back to sleep. I don't want to spoil your part in tonight, but I promise you, it will be... spectacular."

Ned translates that to _painful and deadly_. He smiles grimly at Roth's back as Roth returns to the table to fetch something — probably a chloroform rag — and says, "Don't say I didn't warn you about Frye. If you'd work with me, I could help you."

Roth gives a low chuckle. "Could you indeed. And what sort of intelligence would you be prepared to offer, Mr. Wynert?"

"Maybe I know where he went after he left my house this morning," Ned says.

Roth turns, rag in hand, and Ned squeezes his fingers together tighter, working them out of the ropes. 

"I already know where he'll be tonight," Roth says.

 _Keep him talking_. "Then maybe I know exactly what you could say to him to lure him out."

Roth walks toward him, and Ned's nose catches a whiff of chloroform. _Not again_. He's not sure he'll wake up a second time, and even if he does, what the hell Roth will have done to him.

"And what would that be?" Roth asks indulgently.

"Untie me and I'll tell you," Ned says, tipping his head back and staring Roth straight in the eye. He lets himself look just a shade of desperate.

Predictably, Roth laughs in his face and claps the rag over his mouth.

Ned wrenches his hand out of the ropes, swings his arm out, and drives his lockpick into Roth's left eye.

Roth recoils at the last moment and the pick only tears across the surface of his eye, but blood splatters across Ned's hand and Roth gives a howl of pain. As he stumbles back, Ned drops the pick and plunges his hand into his boot, yanking out his knife and sawing at the ropes around his knees. One snaps. Ned yanks at the others, frantically loosening them. Roth doesn't take a moment to collect himself; he slaps one palm over his left eye, his face chalk white and teeth bared as he lunges forward. Ned throws himself out of the chair, landing hard on his shoulder and kicking his ankles free of the loose rope. 

He rolls to his feet, knife in hand. The room lurches beneath him. 

He nearly loses his balance, nausea sweeping over him at the sudden movement, and that's all the opportunity Roth needs to catch up with him. He slams into Ned, bearing him back into a stack of crates that give under their combined weight. Ned hits the floor hard, Roth above him, and barely has time to process the impact before Roth's hands close around his throat and squeeze so tight his vision turns white.

He swipes his knife hand up as hard as he can and feels it rip into Roth's cheek. 

Roth slams his head into the floor in retaliation, and Ned loses the next several moments. 

When he comes to, his lungs are screaming, unbearable pressure on his throat. He thrashes, or tries, but his body is pinned — Roth has one hand wrapped around his neck and the other pinning Ned's knife hand to the floor, the rest of his weight settled into keeping Ned's injured arm crushed beneath him. And Roth is grinning savagely down at him, blood pouring down his face from his ruined eye and a deep gouge across his cheekbone.

"So you can be interesting," Roth snarls. He bears down harder and Ned, with growing horror and dizziness, feels himself weakening, his feet scraping uselessly across the floor.

He dimly hears the door opening behind him and his next attempt at breathing tastes almost like hope.

At least until the voice speaks and it's Lewis, saying blandly, "I heard a commotion, sir."

Roth laughs and rocks back. He loosens his grip on Ned's throat enough to let in a whisper of air and Ned gasps frantically for it, his vision swimming. "Mr. Wynert was just proving himself worthy of a starring role," Roth says, staring down at him.

"Do you require any assistance, sir?" Ned hears the voice as if from a distance, the sound of his own thin, labored breathing unbearably loud in his ears.

"Get the chloroform ready." Roth pauses, his eyes narrowing. "And then shoot the man who tied his bonds."

There's a moment of silence, and then Lewis's reply is simply, "Yes, sir."

Roth releases the pressure on Ned's throat, and Ned sucks in a breath so sudden and deep it makes his head spin out of control. The world dims, and when it sharpens again, he's been turned over, his hands roped together, a knee digging into his back. No give this time.

Fingers scrape over Ned's bound hands.

"Very impressive," Roth says. "I should have expected that, after you freed Jacob."

Then he breaks one of Ned's fingers.

"Son of a _bitch_ ," Ned sobs, when he's done just yelling, furious beyond anything he's ever felt. "Son of a _fucking_ bitch."

"Now, now," Roth chides — "If you can't stomach that, how will you behave yourself in the show tonight?"

"He's going to kill you," Ned spits. "He's going to tear you in half, you piece of shit. I'll see you in hell —"

Roth rolls him over and pushes a rag into his mouth.

-

The world trickles back in, an ocean of swimming colors and flickering lights and voices that land strangely in his ears. 

Ned blinks open his eyes and everything spins, red and black and gold. He's floating.

He closes his eyes and feels himself sink again. Then, an unimaginable time later, he drags himself back into wakefulness, and it feels like clawing his way out of deep water this time; his head is heavy and pounding, his mouth is clammy and sickly sweet, and his skin crawls all over with sweat. 

Roth's voice booms suddenly out of nowhere, amplified somehow: "... We found a suitably flat-headed gentleman for this one!" In the distance, people laughing and clapping. "You laugh, ladies and gentlemen, but I assure you that is the case!" 

Ned cracks open his eyes and sees red curtains swaying above him in the darkness. His glasses have been placed on his nose. When he tries to move, his body is limp and tingling, his hands and feet bound. Even in the haze he seems to be drifting in, he feels a stir of unease. There's pain, if he reaches far enough. His throat, raw and bruised. His hands...

He's gagged, but this rag doesn't taste like chloroform.

Roth is narrating what sounds like a magic trick, to the gasps and occasional cheers of his apparent audience. Ned tries to block out the sound of his voice and focus on his own surroundings. He's well alive, but someone seems to have placed him inside a coffin, a plain wooden box that smells freshly sawn. When he rolls his head to the side, he can see out through a hole cut in one side of the box, but all he can see is swaying curtains.

His hands are numb, pinned underneath his body, and his fingers don't respond when he tries to move them. Ned feels an answering shiver of fear.

There's a sudden collective gasp from the crowd. Roth bellows with laughter. "All part of the entertainment, ladies and gentlemen! All part of the entertainment."

Ned stares out of the box and sees a pair of stagehands, partially concealed by a cloud of smoke that seems to have rolled from onstage, dragging something.

It's a man, a knife jutting from his forehead, his eyes blank and a thin line of blood rolling down his nose.

"For our next trick, ladies and gentlemen, we have a very brave volunteer," Roth booms.

Suddenly, the box is lifted from both ends and Ned finds himself being carried out onto the stage, into the smoke. The lurching footsteps of whoever is carrying the box make him seasick, and he squeezes his eyes shut against a surge of nausea, his head spinning like he's ten whiskeys deep.

The box is placed several feet above the ground, and as the smoke clears, he's treated to the disorienting sight of an entire theater gazing back at him, barely visible over the glare of the stage lights. 

The Alhambra is cavernous and red, guests packing the balconies above him, staring down.

 _No. No, no, no_.

Ned whimpers into the gag, but an orchestra is playing between him and the audience, drowning out the sounds from the stage. No one can hear him. And he can barely move. Not even the fear spreading through his veins will convince his body to move.

He hears footsteps creaking on the stage behind him, and Roth shouting, "Ladies and gentlemen, I am honored to introduce our celebrated illusionist, Sabertooth Jane! She is said to have studied at the feet of Torrini himself! With our volunteer in the box, Jane will saw him in half — leaving him unharmed!"

 _No. No_.

Ned hears a _thunk_ as something hard and metal settles on the box somewhere above his torso and gives a slow, grating saw.

Roth laughs like thunder, his words rattling around in Ned's head as he roars, triumphant:

_"This volunteer is about to die for you, Jacob!"_


End file.
